A Truly Personal Moment

There are moments in the year that do not bear names in any calendar, yet they stay with us for a lifetime. The chirping of cicadas or grasshoppers just before the change, when summer still breathes but is already bidding farewell. Frost on the windowpane when the wind falls silent for the first time that winter. The unexpected scent of smoke and damp wood that strangely brings back memories of autumns from decades past. These nameless moments are the ones we carry the longest — as if time were not truly written in months but in fleeting nuances. This is precisely the purpose of the old Japanese calendar known as shichijūni kō — the system of 72 micro-seasons, in which each change, no matter how delicate, is given its name, its meaning, its attention. Last week, we introduced its history, philosophy, and the first 36 micro-seasons — from the early spring breezes to the buzzing, juicy days of summer. If you haven’t yet had a chance to explore them, it’s worth beginning there — for this story unfolds best when it follows its natural cycle (see -> The 72 Japanese Seasons, Part 1 – Spring and Summer in the Calendar of Subtle Mindfulness).

Today we continue this journey through the second half of the year — autumn and winter. It is a period when nature begins to speak more softly, but in doing so, its voice becomes all the more poignant. We encounter phrases like: “dense fog descends,” “the cicadas fall silent,” “bears burrow into their dens,” “young barley sprouts beneath the snow.” These micro-seasons are not merely a calendar of meteorological changes — they are a register of emotions, a narrative of withdrawal, focus, reflection. Japanese culture has long taught that vanishing, emptiness, and silence can be just as meaningful as fullness, clamor, and blossoming. In this sense, autumn and winter are not an ending but a moment in which one can hear oneself again.

In a world that worships immediacy, the micro-seasons offer an invitation to another kind of presence. Instead of “having time,” they teach us how to be in time. Instead of fleeing seasonal changes or ignoring them, they show us how to “settle comfortably” into them. Those who begin to live by the micro-seasons will, in time, discover that the most important things — the ones we truly take with us to the grave — do not occur on grand dates but in the “nameless moments.” Many of those moments without names often return to us; we notice them, perhaps smile faintly to ourselves, or whisper something under our breath, but we never manage to share them with anyone. They are truly ours.

AUTUM

大暑 Taisho – Great Heat
(July 23 – August 7)

桐始結花 (Kiri hajimete hana o musubu)
“Paulownia trees begin to form seeds”
(July 23 – 28)

In the crowns of tall paulownia trees, which only recently cast their light shade over the roads, the seeds of the future ripen — small, hard fruits full of promise. Though the flowers have long since fallen, life continues — hidden, quiet, persistent. In Japanese culture, the paulownia (kiri) is the imperial tree, a symbol of rebirth and strength — its seeds are the almost invisible legacy of summer. This is a time when the world no longer blooms for show but works silently and intently, preparing for the long journey through the darkness and cold of winter.

土潤溽暑 (Tsuchi uruōte mushi atsushi)
“The earth is damp, the air is stifling”
(July 29 – August 2)

Nature breathes heavily. The earth, soaked by rains, steams, and the air grows sticky and dense — as though the world were wrapped in a warm towel. People slow their movements, insects buzz sluggishly, and the day drifts in a state of breathless suspension. This micro-season is full of tension — between water and fire, between the need for rest and the unease before the storm. Within this sultriness lies everything: fatigue and sensuality, anxiety and a premonition of change.

大雨時行 (Taiu tokidoki furu)
“Great rains fall from time to time”
(August 3 – 7)

When the stifling heat reaches its peak, sudden, heavy downpours fall from the sky. Sometimes they last only moments, sometimes hours, but they always bring catharsis — the sound of rain on rooftops, the scent of wet earth, the flash of released tension. This is the time when nature regulates its own balance, violently, but wisely. Water does not destroy — it cleanses. It is a moment when the world takes a deep, wet breath.

立秋 Risshū – Beginning of Autumn
(August 8 – 22)

涼風至 (Suzukaze itaru)
“Cool winds arrive”
(August 8 – 12)

After the stifling days of great heat comes the first breath of relief — a cooler breeze, at first almost imperceptible, yet felt by the skin and the heart. It is not yet true autumn, but a premonition of it, like a rustle behind your back in a quiet room. These winds are not cold but bring freshness and clarity, as if the world straightened its shoulders for a moment. This is the moment when summer begins to step aside with dignity, without resistance, yielding space to reflection.

寒蝉鳴 (Higurashi naku)
“Cold cicadas sing”
(August 13 – 17)

The quiet lament of the higurashi — the evening cicadas — echoes over fields and forests, like a sound of longing woven from warmth and passing time. Their voice is not joyful, but melancholic — as if the insects themselves knew their song was nearing its end. This is one of the most symbolic micro-seasons in the Japanese aesthetic of mono no aware: a moment of beauty that hurts precisely because it is so fragile. Whoever hears the higurashi at dusk once will forever carry that sound in their memory.

蒙霧升降 (Fukaki kiri matō)
“Thick fog rises and falls”
(August 18 – 22)

The world becomes a dreamlike landscape — valleys, roads, and fields are wrapped in thick, milky fog. This is not morning mist but a fog of suspension: between day and night, between summer and autumn, between light and shadow. The fog softens edges, soothes the senses. In this micro-season, nature seems to speak more quietly, in a whisper — as though it were preparing us for the coming time of focus and inwardness.

処暑 Shosho – Retreating Heat
(August 23 – September 7)

綿柎開 (Wata no hana shibe hiraku)
“Cotton flowers open their calyxes”
(August 23 – 27)

In the fields, cotton begins to bloom — delicate, white tufts, as if nature were whispering of the softness and warmth to come with the cooler days. This sight, subtle and almost silent, carries a sense of transition: from external blossoming to internal ripening. The cotton flower does not dazzle, does not draw the eye like the sakura — but it endures, works in silence. This is the micro-season of domestic warmth, simplicity, and gentleness.

天地始粛 (Tenchi hajimete samushi)
“Heaven and earth begin to cool”
(August 28 – September 1)

The air changes noticeably — mornings become brisk, and evenings gently cool. This change does not arrive suddenly but as if with thoughtfulness — the sky no longer blinds but soothes, and the earth no longer burns the feet but invites a walk. It is a time when the world lowers its voice. Space finds its balance, as if nature itself sighed deeply after the intensity of summer.

禾乃登 (Kokumono sunawachi minoru)
“Grains ripen”
(September 2 – 7)

In the rice fields, the stalks turn golden, their stems bowing under the weight of the grain. This is one of the most important moments in the traditional Japanese year — a time of gratitude, labor, and hope. The scent of ripe rice mingles with the first cool wind of autumn. This micro-season teaches humility before nature’s cycles — that every fullness is born of patience.

白露 Hakuro – White Dew
(September 8 – 22)

草露白 (Kusa no tsuyu shiroshi)
“Dew on the grass turns white”
(September 8 – 12)

The morning light reveals what the night left behind in silence — droplets of dew on blades of grass, gleaming like pearls in the day’s first chill. It is not rain, not mist, but a quiet presence — a sign that summer has yielded, and the world is preparing for a slow fading. In Japanese culture, dew (tsuyu) symbolizes impermanence, a beauty that vanishes before we can grasp it. This micro-season is a hymn to things that exist only for a moment.

鶺鴒鳴 (Sekirei naku)
“Wagtails sing”
(September 13 – 17)

From the edges of streams and country paths comes the short, high-pitched call of the Japanese wagtail (sekirei) — a bird with a delicate body and a lively tail that constantly moves. Its song is like the sound of passing time — not insistent, but certain. In Japanese mythology, wagtails appear as the birds that taught the gods how to engage in intimacy* — symbols of rhythm and harmony. This is a micro-season of light steps and cheerful daily rituals.

*

I cannot leave this without comment, as it is an immensely curious story. Though it may sound surprising, wagtails (sekirei, 鶺鴒) have their place in Japanese mythology, especially in the oldest texts such as the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki.
In the Kojiki, when the pair of creator deities, Izanagi and Izanami, were about to consummate their union for the first time, they did not yet know how to do so. Then — according to the text — a wagtail appeared and, through its characteristic tail movement (shiri furi, or “wagging of the rear”), inspired and taught them the “art of intimacy.” This, of course, is a myth in the spirit of Shintō — very corporeal and symbolic, referencing the observation of animals as models for natural behavior.

玄鳥去 (Tsubame saru)
“Swallows depart”
(September 18 – 22)

The swallows, which only recently circled above the fields and courtyards, vanish from the skies — flying south, leaving behind only the emptiness of blue. Their departure is deeply felt, like the loss of an old friend. This is a micro-season of farewell — gentle, but not without emotion. In Japanese culture, swallows have always been symbols of cyclical return, loyalty, and the hearth. When they leave, the home feels strangely quiet.

秋分 Shūbun – Autumn Equinox
(September 23 – October 7)

雷乃収声 (Kaminari sunawachi koe o osamu)
“Thunder ceases its voice”
(September 23 – 27)

The last echoes of summer storms fall silent beyond the horizon. The sky, recently torn by flashes and rumbles, now grows calm — as if the elements had given way to the melancholic order of autumn. This is the micro-season when the world stops speaking loudly. Silence is not emptiness, but maturity — like after an argument, when only the true meaning of the words remains.

蟄虫坏戸 (Mushi kakurete to o fusagu)
“Insects hide away and close their doors”
(September 28 – October 2)

Small creatures — crickets, grasshoppers, beetles — disappear from sight. They hide deep beneath leaves, in crevices of the earth, under stones, closing invisible doors to the world. Their disappearance is not escape, but an act of trust in the cyclical order — they know that the time for their song has come to an end this year. This is the micro-season of withdrawal, silence, and the beginning of preparation for winter sleep.

水始涸 (Mizu hajimete karuru)
“Water begins to vanish from the rice fields”
(October 3 – 7)

The water that nourished the rice fields all summer long begins to recede. Farmers open the drainage channels — water slowly retreats, leaving behind exposed, dark soil. It is a sign of the approaching harvest and the end of labor that has matured under sun and rain. This micro-season is a moment of transition: from nurturing to gratitude, from wet to dry, from work to rest.

寒露 Kanro – Cold Dew
(October 8 – 22)

鴻雁来 (Kōgan kitaru)
“Wild geese arrive”
(October 8 – 12)

Long lines appear in the sky — wild geese returning from the north, their cries piercing the autumn air like an ancient song. They fly high, yet their presence is felt down to the bone — a sign that the cold will only deepen. Their migration is a cyclical prayer in motion — a reminder that everything in the world has its place and time.

菊花開 (Kiku no hana hiraku)
“Chrysanthemums bloom”
(October 13 – 17)

In the cool air that discourages other flowers, the chrysanthemum blooms with dignity. It is the queen of autumn — serene, resilient, its petals arranged like the thoughts of an old poet. In Japan, kiku symbolizes longevity, loyalty, elegance — but also solitude. You can read more about the meaning of this and other flowers here: Japanese Flower Dictionary – 15 Extraordinary Flowers and Their Symbolism in Japanese Culture

蟋蟀在戸 (Kirigirisu to ni ari)
“Crickets chirp by the door”
(October 18 – 22)

As evening falls more quickly and the home becomes a refuge, the cricket begins to sing just outside the threshold. Its song is not loud — more a whisper of time, a reminder of life unfolding nearby, in the cracks and shadows. In Japanese tradition, the kirigirisu is the voice of autumnal silence — not of melancholy, but of focus. This is the season when nature plays softly — for those who wish to listen.

霜降 Sōkō – Frost Descends
(October 23 – November 6)

霜始降 (Shimo hajimete furu)
“The first frost appears”
(October 23 – 27)

In the morning, the grass sparkles white — as if the night had sprinkled the earth with frozen light. The first frost brings not just cold but a touch of silence that embraces everything: rooftops, leaves, the steps before the house. In this micro-season, the world seems to hold its breath slightly — not yet winter, but no longer autumn. It is a time of fragility, when each step may leave a trace in the icy dust.

霎時施 (Kosame tokidoki furu)
“Occasional, chilly showers fall”
(October 28 – November 1)

Raindrops appear and vanish like thoughts that refuse to stay still. The short rain — kosame — does not soak the world, but marks it with an atmosphere of approaching winter. The moist air carries the scent of wet wood, fallen leaves, and memories hidden in shadow. This is another micro-season often linked in poetry to the symbolism of impermanence — things that last only a moment but remain in memory.

楓蔦黄 (Momiji tsuta kibamu)
“Maple and ivy leaves turn yellow”
(November 2 – 6)

The crowns of maples begin to fade — red gives way to gold, green shifts into warm earth tones. Ivy climbs up the walls, its leaves yellowing like the pages of an old book. The colors do not burst forth but dim with dignity. This is the micro-season of slow departure, which does not hurt — it gently invites reconciliation with what once was.

WINTER

立冬 Rittō – Beginning of Winter
(November 7 – 21)

山茶始開 (Tsubaki hajimete hiraku)
“Camellias begin to bloom”
(November 7 – 11)

In a cool, quiet garden appears the first camellia bloom — heavy, matte, in a hue as if drawn from the depths of time. Tsubaki does not bloom for the world — it has no fragrance, no shine — and yet it draws the eye with its restrained elegance. In Japan, it is the flower of winter strength: calm, steadfast, needing no fanfare. This micro-season is an homage to that which endures despite the cold.

地始凍 (Chi hajimete kōru)
“The ground begins to freeze”
(November 12 – 16)

Footsteps grow firmer, their echo deeper — the earth, once damp and soft, begins to harden. Snow has not yet fallen, but the night cold stills the water in puddles, sketching the first cracks across their surface. This is the micro-season when the world begins to retreat inward. Freezing is not death — it is preparation for endurance.

金盞香 (Kinsenka saku)
“Narcissi bloom”
(November 17 – 21)

Amid bare branches and a pale blue sky, the delicate calyxes of narcissi emerge from the earth. Their fragrance — fresh, cool, almost transparent — contradicts the common image of winter as colorless. In Japanese culture, the narcissus (kinsenka) is a symbol of subtle courage and unexpected beauty. This is the micro-season of hidden hope — the kind that does not shout, but quietly waits.

小雪 Shōsetsu – Light Snow
(November 22 – December 6)

虹蔵不見 (Niji kakurete miezu)
“Rainbows vanish”
(November 22 – 26)

There is no longer room in the sky for colors — moisture, cold, and leaden gray obscure the light. Rainbows, which not long ago appeared after summer storms, disappear without farewell. This is the micro-season of loss — not dramatic, but quiet and natural. Like a smile fading from the face of someone deep in thought.

朔風払葉 (Kitakaze konoha o harau)
“The north wind sweeps away the leaves”
(November 27 – December 1)

The last leaves fall from the trees — not one by one, but in great handfuls, torn away by the harsh northern wind. This is no longer an autumn breeze, but the icy voice of winter, mercilessly clearing the branches. This micro-season does not bring sorrow, but clarity — as if the world were simplifying itself to what is essential. All that is unnecessary is swept away.

橘始黄 (Tachibana hajimete kibamu)
“The leaves of the tachibana begin to yellow”
(December 2 – 6)

On the tachibana trees — evergreen, citrus-fragrant — the first signs of change appear. Their yellowing leaves are a subtle sign that even what seems immutable yields to time. In Japan, the tachibana symbolizes longevity, but also inner ripening. This is the micro-season of wisdom — a quiet acceptance of transience without resistance.

大雪 Taisetsu – Great Snow
(December 7 – 21)

閉塞成冬 (Sora samuku fuyu to naru)
“The sky turns cold — winter begins”
(December 7 – 11)

The air hardens like glass, and the horizon closes in grays. This is the moment when winter ceases to be a prelude and becomes reality — all-encompassing and undeniable. The sky freezes, as though it has stopped breathing. This micro-season brings no sudden changes, but rather irreversibility — the winter world encloses all life.

熊蟄穴 (Kuma ana ni komoru)
“Bears retreat into their dens”
(December 12 – 16)

Deep within forest caves, the great bodies of bears settle into sleep. Their disappearance is like the final act of nature’s theater — even that which is strong and wild must rest. This is a micro-season of shelter — not born from weakness, but from wisdom. In the silence of the den, strength for spring is born.

鱖魚群 (Sake no uo muragaru)
“Salmon gather and swim upstream”
(December 17 – 21)

In the icy rivers begins the final journey — the salmon return to their source to complete their cycle. Their silver bodies cut through the current against its force, carrying within them the ancient memory of the place from which they came. This micro-season speaks of return — not sentimental, but deeply inscribed in the order of life. Even in the heart of winter, there is movement — full of purpose and meaning.

冬至 Tōji – Winter Solstice
(December 22 – January 4)

乃東生 (Natsukarekusa shōzu)
“Winter grass sprouts” (stachys begins to bud)
(December 22 – 26)

Though the world lies dormant in winter’s stillness, something strange begins beneath the ice and shadow — a plant known as natsukarekusa (“summer-withering grass”) sends forth green shoots. It is stachys, a humble medicinal herb, growing against all odds — against the season, against expectation. This micro-season is a symbol of unlikely hope: strength born not of warmth, but of endurance. The beginning does not start with noise — but with the trembling of roots.

麋角解 (Sawashika no tsuno otsuru)
“The deer sheds its antlers”
(December 27 – 31)

In the depths of the forest, something occurs — signs of antlers fallen from the heads of old deer. In Japanese tradition, deer are messengers of the gods, their life cycle a reflection of the world’s rhythm. The shedding of antlers is a natural act, yet full of symbolism — sometimes, for something to be reborn, something else must die away. This micro-season reminds us that dignity lies not only in strength but in the acceptance of change.

雪下出麦 (Yuki watarite mugi nobiru)
“Under the snow, young barley sprouts”
(January 1 – 4)

Beneath the white layer, invisible to the eye, the young shoot of barley rises from the earth. This is one of winter’s quietest and yet most important events — a harbinger of future harvests, a promise of life contained in an invisible gesture. Snow does not suppress life — sometimes its beginnings ripen beneath it in stillness. This micro-season is like the whisper of the New Year: a beginning born from an unseen impulse.

小寒 Shōkan – Lesser Cold
(January 5 – 19)

芹乃栄 (Seri sunawachi sakau)
“Watercress grows in abundance”
(January 5 – 9)

In a frozen world where life seems dormant, seri — wild watercress — begins to green along the edges of cold streams. It is one of the seven herbs of spring (nanakusa), eaten on January 7 to restore balance after winter indulgence. Its appearance is not a silent promise of renewal. This micro-season reminds us that even amidst the cold, life can still find a place for itself.

水泉動 (Shimizu atataka o fukumu)
“Springs begin to stir with warmth”
(January 10 – 14)

From deep within the earth comes something that cannot be seen — a gentle stirring of underground waters, the first signs of warmth. Springs, frozen and silent for so long, begin to pulse again — not violently, but steadily. This micro-season symbolizes life hidden beneath the surface — patient, strong, almost spiritual. Winter begins to lose its grip — first, underground.

雉始雊 (Kiji hajimete naku)
“The pheasant begins to call”
(January 15 – 19)

Amid leafless trees rings out a sudden, sharp cry — the male pheasant proclaims his presence. Though February is still far off, nature awakens through sound — not through color or movement, but voice. In Japanese symbolism, the pheasant is a bird of vigilance, courage, and protection, and its cry foretells rebirth. This micro-season teaches that the first sign of change need not be visible — sometimes, it is enough to hear it.

大寒 Daikan – Greater Cold
(January 20 – February 3)

款冬華 (Fuki no hana saku)
“Fuki flowers bloom”
(January 20 – 24)

Amid snow and frozen soil, before any leaves appear, the first buds of Japanese butterbur (fuki) emerge — delicate yet tenacious. It is one of the earliest wildflowers to bloom in Japan, a herald of life where silence seemed absolute. This micro-season teaches us that beginnings are often hidden, modest, unassuming — yet meaningful. Winter allows that which has endured to bloom.

水沢腹堅 (Sawamizu kōri tsumeru)
“Streams freeze solid to the bottom”
(January 25 – 29)

Ice no longer merely covers the surface — in this micro-season, entire streams freeze solid, down to the very bottom. Everything becomes motionless, suspended, as if time itself stopped flowing with the water. It is the deepest moment of winter stillness — filled with solemnity and focus. Nature holds its breath just before the turning point.

鶏始乳 (Niwatori hajimete toya ni tsuku)
“Chickens begin to lay eggs”
(January 30 – February 3)

Amid the cold, in coops and village yards, the first eggs appear — a subtle sign that the cycle of life begins anew. In Japanese folk culture, an egg in the heart of winter is a miracle and a symbol — the primal source, the promise that the world has not frozen forever. This micro-season closes the calendar year not with death, but with beginning. The greatest cold gives way to the quietest hope.

And so the year comes to a close — and before us, spring once again

As we conclude the winter sekki — Shōkan and Daikan — we also complete the second half of the calendar of seventy-two micro-seasons, which has guided us through the latter part of the Japanese year: from the first withered paulownia blossom in the height of summer’s heat to the egg laid by a hen in the deep hush of winter. It is not merely a cycle of climatic changes, but a subtle tale of transitions — from lushness to stillness, from sound to silence, from blazing heat to a breath from deep within the earth. Each micro-season is like a stanza in a great poem recited wordlessly by nature — a poem that the Japanese have striven to hear and understand for centuries.

The cycle does not end — on February 4, with the arrival of Risshun (立春), the beginning of spring, the entire clock quietly begins its turn once more. That is why, according to ancient reckoning, the New Year began not on January 1 but with the first breath of warm wind, the first sign of rebirth. The modern world measures time in numbers and deadlines, but the calendar of 72 micro-seasons teaches us something else: that it is worth living attentively, noticing even the tiniest signs of change — that every yellowing leaf, every cicada’s silence, every drop of dew at dawn is time that can hold meaning.

Micro-seasons and the Aesthetics of Solitude and Silence

Autumn and winter in the Japanese calendar of 72 micro-seasons mark a time of gradual disappearance, of the world slipping into quiet — and simultaneously, of its deepest beauty. It is precisely then that the full power of sabi aesthetics reveals itself — a concept difficult to translate, yet profoundly moving — even for us, distanced from old Japan by half a globe and hundreds of years. Sabi is the patina of age, solitude without bitterness, melancholy without drama. It is the teacup with a cracked glaze, held in greater reverence than a gleaming porcelain set. It is the awareness that impermanence is not only inevitable, but necessary for depth — like a poem that touches us precisely because it comes to an end.

In micro-seasons such as “swallows depart” (玄鳥去, Tsubame saru) or “dense fog descends” (蒙霧升降, Fukaki kiri matō), we do not find weariness with autumn, but its essence — the world’s slow dance toward dormancy, where both sorrow and contemplation reside.

Japanese culture has long intertwined the rhythms of nature with those of the spirit. Winter calligraphy, written with a brush dipped in ink that smells of smoke, becomes an act of meditation, not expression. Tea brewed in solitude, in silence, in a cup with an imperfect rim — is a ritual of presence, not luxury. A stone garden under snow needs no color — a line, a shadow, a space suffice. This is aesthetics in its reduced form: the faint trace of footsteps on a frosty path, a brief haiku about wind rustling through bamboo, steam rising from a bowl. There is an extraordinary resonance here with European melancholy and Stoic calm — not to flee from the inevitable, but to find meaning within it.

How the Micro-Seasons (kō) Shaped People’s Lives

Though today the 72 micro-seasons (kō) inspire awe primarily as a poetic phenomenon, in the past they served highly practical purposes. For centuries, they were tools for organizing the lives of farmers, artisans, and priests. In a world without modern meteorology, observing natural phenomena — the wagtail’s song, the appearance of misty dew, the silence of cicadas — was a way of measuring time and planning labor. When the micro-sekki “grains ripen” (Kokumono sunawachi minoru) appeared in September, it marked the beginning of harvest preparations. When “bears retreat into their dens” (Kuma ana ni komoru), people in the mountains began collecting firewood. Even Shintō rituals were scheduled in harmony with the rhythm of the micro-seasons — shrines had assigned dates for purification, processions, and offerings that aligned with nature’s movements.

In everyday life during the Edo period and earlier eras, the kō also dictated the rhythms of cooking and domestic customs. In early autumn, market stalls would offer chestnuts (kuri) and matsutake mushrooms, considered delicacies for the upper classes, and eventually also the merchant class. During winter micro-seasons, special importance was given to yuzu — a citrus fruit with a strong aroma — whose slices were added to hot baths during the winter solstice (Tōji no yuzu-yu), believed to ward off colds and bring good fortune. The kitchen featured daikon — white radish simmered slowly — and nabe dishes, hearty one-pot meals cooked together at the table. Homes adapted to the cold by setting out kotatsu — low tables with a heater underneath and a blanket over the top — becoming the center of family life. The micro-seasons did not merely tell people when to do things — they taught how to live, in harmony with the surrounding world.

Autumn and winter kō also shaped festivals and rituals. Tsukimi and Otsukimi — the autumn moon-viewing celebrations held around the September full moon — derived from ancient Chinese rites, but in Japan they became deeply connected to observing nature. Altars of pampas grass were set out, rice dumplings (tsukimi dango) prepared, and thanks given to the moon for the harvest.

In December, Oseibo was celebrated — the custom of giving gifts to those to whom one owes something, such as teachers, doctors, or superiors — and its timing often coincided with specific micro-seasons like “occasional light rains fall” (Kosame tokidoki furu), symbolizing gentleness and the passage of time.

The final night of the year — Toshikoshi — was spent not only in vigil and listening to the tolling of the Joya no kane temple bells, but also in reflection on how the 72 micro-stages of life and nature had passed. Thus, the kō taught not only harmony with the environment, but also humility before time and gratitude for impermanence — a lesson that has lost none of its relevance.

Can We Have Our Own Micro-Seasons?

When we look at the Japanese calendar of 72 micro-seasons, what strikes us is not only its precision, but its intimacy. Each kō is like a note in a personal diary of the world: “when wagtails begin to sing,” “when the dew turns white,” “when the cicadas fall silent” — these are not temperature readings, but moments of presence. And so perhaps the most important question today is: can we create our own kō calendar? Would it not be worth recording those moments that return to us when no one is watching? Moments we have never spoken of with anyone, only with ourselves — “when crows sound like rain at dawn,” “when birches drop their last leaf onto the cobblestone,” “when the scent of smoke mingles with cold air”?

Each of us lives in a landscape that changes day by day. Micro-seasons can be a bridge to mindfulness, a ritual of daily contact with time not measured by clocks but felt in the soul.

In truth — it would be a fully valid mindfulness practice: a personal practice of naming the micro-seasons of your own life. One could keep a simple journal: a single sentence each day about what is changing in the sounds, the smells, the light. Over time, these individual observations would give rise to a unique calendar, rooted in your own place, attention, and personality. It is not the spectacle of nature, but its penumbra. The penumbra of one’s own life — those brief moments of awareness we will never share with anyone, and which we will carry with us to the grave.

>> SEE ALSO SIMILAR ARTICLES:

The 72 Japanese Seasons, Part 1 – Spring and Summer in the Calendar of Subtle Mindfulness

Yukiguni – What Life Lessons Can Be Learned from Japan’s Snow Country?

Serious Snowball Fighting, Aka the Japanese Team Sport Yukigassen

Winter Whispering Dreams: 10 Names for Snow in the Japanese Language

The Silence of Endless White – Winter Haiku as a Mirror of the Soul

"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

Write us...

Ciechanów, Polska

dr.imyon@gmail.com

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inari.smart

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