May 26th, or 紅花栄 ("the time when safflower blooms")

To be mindful of everyday life and to live in close connection with nature — these are not merely slogans in Japan. They manifest in countless aspects of human activity — even in the Japanese calendar! The year there is not divided into just four seasons, but into seventy-two. Each lasts only five days and bears a name like a short poem — "the mist begins to drift" (霞始靆, February 24–28), "sparrows begin to build nests" (雀始巣, March 21–25), "earthworms emerge from the soil" (蚯蚓出, May 10–14). These are not meteorological terms, but moments of attention: records of those brief instants when nature subtly shifts its tone of voice. This is not a calendar as a planning tool, but as a poetic compass, prompting us to pause and notice that the world around us — the tree beyond the window, the sky above the roof, the wind in the field — is changing. Right now.

Shichijūni kō, or the "seventy-two 候 (kō)," are micro-seasons originating from ancient lunisolar calendar traditions, already present in Japan as early as the 6th century. They have survived through the centuries, transformed by Japanese sensitivity and rooted in the Buddhist awareness of impermanence (無常, mujō) and the aesthetic of mono no aware — the melancholy of transience. Their purpose was not merely to measure time but above all to invite contemplation. By watching how "the first reeds sprout" (April 20) or "fish surface beneath the ice" (February 14), we learn to live not by the clock, but by the rhythm of leaves, the song of birds, and the light filtering through morning mist. That, after all, is true time — not what we see at the top or in the bottom right corner of our screens.

Today we embark on a journey through the first half of this extraordinary calendar — from early spring, shyly breaking through snow and hardened ice, to the heat of July, when young hawks learn to fly. You will discover the first 36 micro-seasons: their names, symbolism, stories, and hidden meanings. Perhaps such a journey into Japanese attentiveness to nature will encourage us to see Polish nature with fresh eyes. Some of Japan’s micro-seasons may appear almost identical here in Poland, merely offset by a week or two. Others will be utterly foreign. Maybe we need to invent our own? Perhaps we’ll discover our own micro-season: the time when the wind smells of mirabelle plum, or the first moment we hear a cricket? Or maybe that sudden slap of a hand on bare skin when the first mosquito appears at lakeside dusk? If you’ve found such a “season” — share it with us in the comments. For now — let us explore the first half of Japan’s seasons — spring and summer. And next week we’ll return with part two — to tell the story of autumn, winter, and all that is quiet, cool, golden, and fleeting.

What is the Calendar of 72 Micro-Seasons?

The Japanese calendar of 72 micro-seasons, known as shichijūni kō (七十二候), is a unique system for measuring time, which divides the year not into four — as in the Western calendar — but into seventy-two brief phases, each lasting about five days. Literally translated, the word kō (候) means “period,” “moment,” or “solar position,” and thus does not refer to a “season” as we understand it, but rather a small unit of time based on observable changes in nature. This system arose from ancient Chinese traditions and was adopted in Japan in the 6th century, finally adapted to local climatic conditions in the 17th century by the court astronomer Shibukawa Shunkai. Unlike the four broadly defined seasons of the Western worldview, shichijūni kō does not mark abstract calendar divisions, but rather guides a person through the subtle transitions occurring in nature — such as the first lark’s song, the return of swallows, the blooming of peonies, or the ripening of plums.

At the heart of this system lies the practice of attentive observation of nature. The Japanese micro-seasons are not arbitrarily fixed — each reflects a specific moment in the life cycle of plants, animals, and atmospheric phenomena. Names like kawazu hajimete naku (蛙始鳴) — “frogs begin to croak” — or kusaretaru kusa hotaru to naru (腐草為螢) — “rotting grass turns into fireflies” — express a living relationship between humans and the natural rhythm of the world. Each micro-season is like a vignette from nature, recorded not in imagery but in words: full of metaphor, symbolism, sometimes superstition, and always — deep sensitivity. Observation here becomes a practice of mindfulness, and life — a contemplation of subtle changes.

From a philosophical point of view, shichijūni kō fits into core concepts of Japanese spirituality. Above all — into the uniquely intimate relationship the Japanese have with nature, and their tendency to observe and reflect upon the smallest details of the flora and fauna around them. Life, like nature, is constant motion, passing, and renewal. The micro-seasons show that there is no single point of equilibrium — there is rather a continuous transformation, a delicate shifting of reality from one state to another. Much like the concept of anicca in Theravāda Buddhism, the calendar of 72 seasons teaches us to accept impermanence as part of a larger whole. The aesthetic concept of mono no aware (物の哀れ) — a melancholy sensitivity to the beauty of fleeting things — is inscribed directly into the structure of this calendar.

Each of the 72 names is not merely a description of the state of nature, but a poetic note on what is now passing. Because they are so brief, these periods name that which, if not appreciated in the moment, will vanish within a few days — and return only a year later. Thus, having so many seasons at once encourages a closer observation of nature and contemplation of its ever-changing beauty.

This deep-rooted connection with nature manifests in many fields of Japanese culture. In art — especially in haiku poetry and ink painting — seasonal reference is a key element of composition. In cuisine — the concept of shun (旬), or the seasonality of ingredients, prompts chefs to create dishes aligned with the current micro-season. A delicate soup of young bamboo shoots or noodles with winter daikon is not just a dish, but also a form of attunement to the rhythm of the earth. In agriculture — micro-seasons once indicated the ideal times for sowing, harvesting, or resting. And in daily life — they became the framework for festivals, rituals, observations, and reflections.

The History of This Unique Calendar

Before the precisely measured day emerged, before the sun and moon were tamed by digits, people learned about the world through observation. Time was not a mathematical unit then, but a story — about the warm wind melting ice, about swallows returning from the south, about the first sound of thunder. Thus was born the calendar of 72 micro-seasons, whose history begins in ancient China and flows seamlessly into Japanese culture, transformed over the centuries into a subtle poetry of the seasons.

The roots of this system lie in the Chinese classification of the 24 sekki (節気) — the twenty-four solar terms that divided the year according to the sun’s movement along the ecliptic. Established around the 2nd century BCE during the Han Dynasty, they served a highly practical purpose: indicating the best times for sowing, harvesting, redirecting irrigation channels, or protecting crops from frost. Names like Keichitsu (啓蟄 – “insects awaken”) or Geshi (夏至 – “summer solstice”) were not only calendar indicators but reflections of careful observation of nature’s changes. This agricultural yet metaphorical way of thinking about time inspired the later division of each sekki into three smaller units — thus forming a total of 72 micro-seasons, known in Japanese as kō (候).

The system of 24 sekki and their further subdivisions was introduced to Japan in the 6th century, along with the arrival of Buddhism and Confucian texts. At first, it was an alien system — based on Chinese geography and climate, often out of sync with Japan’s seasonal realities. Nonetheless, it began to function as a court calendar, and later as an agrarian one. Over time, however, the need arose to reform it and adapt it to Japan’s island climate — more humid, with distinct rainy seasons and characteristic animal migrations.

A breakthrough came in 1685, during the Edo period, thanks to Shibukawa Shunkai (渋川春海) — an astronomer, mathematician, and calligrapher who became the first official Japanese court calendar maker. By reforming the Chinese model then in use, Shunkai made a clear correction to the 72 micro-seasons, changing their names and shifting their dates so as to reflect phenomena actually observable in Japan. It was then that many kō gained their poetic, local character — for example, “mist stretches across the fields” (kasumi hajimete tanabiku) or “fireflies emerge from rotting grass” (kusaretaru kusa hotaru to naru). These lyrical descriptions became not only technical notations of the season but also reflections of Japanese aesthetics — inclined toward contemplation of the impermanent, the quiet, and the small.

Over time, the shichijūni kō system blended into the broader context of Japanese thinking about time. Although Japan officially adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1873 as part of the modernization of the Meiji period, the traditional seasonal calendar did not disappear from culture. It survived — first as an agricultural system, then as a literary convention, and finally as a philosophical framework in haiku poetry, tea ceremony, kaiseki cuisine, garden art, and even contemporary photography. In the 21st century, there is a renewed interest in this calendar — not as a binding chronological order, but as a way of living in harmony with nature’s rhythm. In mobile apps, calligraphy, seasonal menus, and daily reflections, the 72 micro-seasons speak to us anew — not from a scientific standpoint, but as a whisper of tradition and memory.

In this calendar, time is not a line but a circle — a gentle, ever-turning wheel. In each of these 72 moments is held not only a natural observation, but also a philosophical thought, an aesthetic image, and an echo of ancient human stories.

The Structure of the Japanese Calendar

The traditional Japanese calendar is a precise and multi-layered system of timekeeping that expresses a profound relationship between humans and the cycles of nature. Although Japan officially uses the Gregorian calendar today, the structure of older systems has survived within its culture, language, cuisine, and art. Here is how its inner construction unfolds.

A year (年, toshi) in the traditional Japanese calendar is divided into four seasons, much like in Poland:

• 春 (haru) – spring: February 5 ~ May 6
• 夏 (natsu) – summer: May 7 ~ August 8
• 秋 (aki) – autumn: August 9 ~ November 7
• 冬 (fuyu) – winter: November 8 ~ February 4

These dates differ from the Western seasonal divisions and are adjusted to the observed changes in Japan’s natural environment. For example, spring begins in early February rather than in March, reflecting earlier signs of seasonal transformation in Japan’s climate.

24 sekki

The 24 sekki (節気) are the principal solar divisions of the year, borrowed from China. Each sekki is approximately a 15-day period that marks key moments in the solar cycle — such as Risshun (立春, “Beginning of Spring”) or Shunbun (春分, “Spring Equinox” — more on Shunbun no Hi can be found here: Shunbun no Hi – March 21: Japan’s Spring Equinox Holiday). They form the backbone of the natural calendar and hold agricultural as well as symbolic and spiritual significance.

72 kō

The 72 kō (候), or micro-seasons, are subtler units of time — each lasting around five days. Three consecutive kō make up one sekki. The names of these micro-seasons are poetic and descriptive, such as “the mist begins to rise” or “swallows return from the south.” They reflect not only natural phenomena but also the way they are experienced — tenderly, mindfully, and with an appreciation for the beauty of the everyday.

Zassetsu

Zassetsu (雑節) refers to special seasonal days that mark transitions between the main seasons or are tied to rituals. Examples include:

• Setsubun (節分) – the day before the beginning of spring (traditionally February 3),
• Higan (彼岸) – the weeks around the spring and autumn equinoxes,
• Doyō (土用) – 18-day periods preceding each season, especially the one before autumn (considered the hottest time of the year).

Months

Months in Japan have both modern numerical names (e.g., 一月 ichigatsu – January) and traditional, poetic terms used in literature and calligraphy, for example:

• 睦月 (Mutsuki) – January (“month of harmony”),
• 如月 (Kisaragi) – February (“month of changing clothes”),
• 弥生 (Yayoi) – March (“new life”),
• 神無月 (Kannazuki) – October (“month without gods”)*

*Although slightly off-topic, this is an interesting story worth including. Why is October called the “month without gods”?

According to a popular Japanese legend, in October all the gods leave their local shrines and gather at Izumo Taisha — one of the oldest and most important Shintō shrines in Japan, located in the province of Izumo (now Shimane Prefecture). Therefore, throughout the rest of Japan, October is known as Kannazuki — “the month without gods,” but in Izumo, the same month is called 神在月 (Kamiarizuki) — “the month when the gods are present.”During this time, Izumo hosts an annual assembly of all the deities (kami) to determine the fates that will befall people in the coming year — such as who will marry whom, and what events await each individual.

Armed with this knowledge of how the Japanese calendar is built, let us now explore all 24 sekki divided into a total of 72 micro-seasons kō (候).

SPRING

立春 (Risshun)

Beginning of Spring

(February 4 - 18)

Harukaze kōri o toku (東風解凍, February 4 ~ 8)
“The east wind melts the ice”

A gentle breeze arrives from the east — the first sign that the winter hush is beginning to crack. Though snow still lies upon the ground, the air already carries a hint of warmth, slowly melting the rivers frozen in ice. This moment is a symbolic gateway to spring — not yet fully open, but slightly ajar.

Kōō kenkan su (黄鶯睍睆, February 9 ~ 13)
“Bush warblers sing in the mountains”

In distant morning valleys resounds the song of the uguisu — the Japanese bush warbler, herald of spring. Its melodic voice rises from the silence like the sound of nature awakening — and time itself. It is a song of life that breaks the winter breathlessness and announces rebirth.

Uo kōri o izuru (魚上氷, February 14 ~ 18)
“Fish surface beneath the ice”

The frozen waters begin to yield — fish long imprisoned beneath the ice sheet start to move. It is the moment when the life hidden below returns to motion, as though the earth itself were beginning to breathe again. This fleeting moment symbolizes the strength of endurance and the quiet awakening of hidden worlds.

雨水 (Usui)

Rainwater

(February 19 - March 5)

Tsuchi no shō uruoi okoru (土脉潤起, February 19 ~ 23)
“Rain moistens the soil”

The first rains awaken the frozen fields, and the dry earth begins to absorb moisture. The water prepares the ground for the arrival of greenery. This is a moment when, in seemingly lifeless soil, a silent yet powerful murmur of rebirth begins to spread.

Kasumi hajimete tanabiku (霞始靆, February 24 ~ 28)
“The mist begins to drift”

Mornings take on an air of mystery — a white, lazy fog blankets the fields, rooftops, and hills. The world does not awaken suddenly but rather lingers in reflection, floating in a soft veil of ambiguity. It is a time of softness and vagueness, in which reality becomes a dream.

Sōmoku mebae izuru (草木萌動, March 1 ~ 5)
“Grasses sprout, trees bud”

The earth awakens — young blades and the first buds are like a delicate whisper of the future. The world is not yet in bloom, but it is already preparing its palette. It is a time of hope, a foretelling of fullness that is yet to come.

啓蟄 (Keichitsu)

Awakening of Insects

(March 6 - 20)

Sugomori mushi to o hiraku (蟄虫啓戸, March 6 ~ 10)
"Hibernating insects open their doors"

From within the earth, from bark, from stones, the first small creatures emerge — hidden away all winter, now timidly probing the light. Their movement signals that the cycle of life is returning to its beginning. Silence is broken by the delicate trembling of wings.

Momo hajimete saku (桃始笑, March 11 ~ 15)
"Peach blossoms begin to smile"

The first peach buds open like mouths — softly, with a shy glow of pink. In classical Japanese, the word “to laugh” (笑う) also means “to bloom” — nature smiles for the first time this spring.

Namushi chō to naru (菜虫化蝶, March 16 ~ 20)
"Caterpillars turn into butterflies"

From the metamorphosis of the body, lightness is born — the insect leaves the ground and rises into the air like poetry made flesh. It reminds us that transformation may be painful, but it leads to freedom and beauty. The time of the caterpillar ends, and the dance of wings begins.

春分 (Shunbun)

Spring Equinox

(March 21 - April 4)

Suzume hajimete sukū (雀始巣, March 21 ~ 25)
"Sparrows begin to build nests"

Sparrows, common yet graceful, gather blades of grass and leaves, creating tiny worlds hidden beneath rooftops and among tree branches. Their movement is a ritual of life — not loud, but daily and deeply symbolic. The nest becomes a sign of hope for the next generation.

Sakura hajimete saku (櫻始開, March 26 ~ 30)
"Cherry blossoms begin to bloom"

The air fills with the sweet scent of destiny — the first petals of sakura (more about sakura here: Understanding the Kanji “sakura” (櫻) – the cherry blossom as a way of seeing the world) unfold in a slow, ceremonial gesture. Their appearance is not just a sign of spring, but a moment of stillness — a reminder of the beauty of fleeting things. Thousands of people gather beneath the trees to share silence and wonder.

Kaminari sunawachi koe o hassu (雷乃発声, March 31 ~ April 4)
"Thunder utters its first voice"

From afar comes the first rumble — not yet threatening, more like sleepy, as if the sky were stretching after a long slumber. It is the sound of the elements awakening, a prelude to rain and new energy. Thunder does not frighten but reminds us that spring, too, has strength.

清明 (Seimei)

Clarity and Brightness

(April 5 - 19)

Tsubame kitaru (玄鳥至, April 5 ~ 9)
"Swallows return"

Swallows, swift and precise like brushstrokes in ink, arrive from the south, cutting through the spring sky. They are symbols of return, loyalty, and the cyclical rhythm that never fails. In their motion one feels joy and freedom — as if the earth were beginning to breathe once more.

Kōgan kaeru (鴻雁北, April 10 ~ 14)
"Wild geese fly north"

The eternal migration continues: long lines of geese cross the sky, returning to their summer nesting grounds. Their honking echoes like an ancient song resounding over mountains and waters. It is a moving image — not of parting sorrow, but of fidelity to nature.

Niji hajimete arawaru (虹始見, April 15 ~ 19)
"The first rainbows appear in the sky"

After rain, light stretches a colorful arc between the horizons. The rainbow doesn’t last long, but its presence speaks — a meeting of water, sun, and air in one dazzling smile. In Japanese culture, the rainbow is sometimes seen as a bridge — between seasons, between the human world and the heavens.

穀雨 (Kokuu)

Grain Rains

(April 20 - May 4)

Ashi hajimete shōzu (葭始生, April 20 ~ 24)
"The first reeds sprout"

On riverbanks and wetlands, green blades of reed pierce the soil and water. Their growth is almost imperceptible yet constant — like the maturing of thought. It is a sign that nature is beginning to prepare the stage for summer’s performance.

Shimo yamite nae izuru (霜止出苗, April 25 ~ 29)
"Frost ceases, rice seedlings sprout"

The end of frost marks the birth of what will become life’s staple — rice. Farmers head to the fields, bent over young shoots. This micro-season holds all the hope for harvest and communal survival.

Botan hana saku (牡丹華, April 30 ~ May 4)
"Peonies bloom"

Peonies — queens of the garden — open their heavy, fragrant blossoms with a sense of pride and dignity. Their presence signals abundance — sensual, rich, elegant. They bloom like a poem of nature’s opulence, before it returns again to simplicity.

立夏 (Rikka)

Beginning of Summer

(May 5 - 9)

Kawazu hajimete naku (蛙始鳴, May 5 ~ 9)
"Frogs begin to sing"

With the start of summer, the fields and ponds resound with frog choruses — the first lively echoes of warmer nights. Their joyful croaking is a symbolic confirmation of the season of growth and activity. In Japanese culture, it is one of the earliest and most cheerful sounds of nature.

Mimizu izuru (蚯蚓出, May 10 ~ 14)
"Earthworms emerge from the ground"

The moist earth pulses with life — from the soil, earthworms rise, heralding the rebirth of the underground world. Their presence symbolizes fertility and the soil’s readiness to receive seeds. It is a moment of quiet yet intense awakening beneath our feet.

Takenoko shōzu (竹笋生, May 15 ~ 20)
"Bamboo shoots appear"

From the dark earth emerge slender, pale green shoots — takenoko, young bamboo, long cherished in both cuisine and poetry. Their rapid growth is a metaphor for strength and renewal. In this micro-season, one feels the full energy of early summer.

小満 (Shōman)

Lesser Fullness

(May 21 - 25)

Kaiko okite kuwa o hamu (蚕起食桑, May 21 ~ 25)
"Silkworms awaken and eat mulberry leaves"

It is the time of transformation's birth — tiny silkworms begin devouring mulberry leaves, preparing to spin their threads. Their presence symbolizes a cycle of labor, change, and craftsmanship. In Japanese culture, silk has always carried an aura of luxury and spiritual discipline.

Benibana sakau (紅花栄, May 26 ~ 30)
"Safflowers bloom"

Vivid red blossoms — benibana, once used to dye fabrics and make lipstick — begin to appear in the fields. Their fragility contrasts with their deep color, which contains the essence of mono no aware — the beauty of transience. In this micro-season, both nature and human craft come into full bloom.

Mugi no toki itaru (麦秋至, May 31 ~ June 5)
"Barley autumn arrives"

Though the name says “barley autumn,” it is early summer that marks the time of harvest — harvest is autumn. Golden fields of barley sway in the wind, heralding abundance and ripeness. It is the moment when nature yields its first fruits.

芒種 (Bōshu)

Grain Planting

(June 6 ~ 10)

Kamakiri shōzu (蟷螂生, June 6 ~ 10)
"Praying mantises are born"

From the hidden folds of greenery emerge slender, green mantises — masters of motionless alertness. Their birth symbolizes the beginning of predatory movement in the insect world. In Japanese symbolism, they also represent strength, concentration, and quiet precision.

Kusaretaru kusa hotaru to naru (腐草為螢, June 11 ~ 15)
"From rotting grass, fireflies are born"

From damp meadows and shaded thickets, points of light begin to rise — hotaru, fireflies. Legend says they are born from decaying grass, turning death into light. Their night dances are an ephemeral spectacle, full of melancholy and wonder in the Japanese summer.

Ume no mi kibamu (梅子黄, June 16 ~ 20)
"Plums turn yellow"

The fruits of the ume — Japanese plum — ripen on the trees, long a source of flavor, medicine, and symbolic purification. Their yellowing skin signals the coming time of harvest and preservation. The taste of pickled umeboshi still holds echoes of this micro-season.

夏至 (Geshi)

Summer Solstice

(June 21 ~ 26)

Natsukarekusa karuru (乃東枯, June 21 ~ 26)
"Prunella withers"

The medicinal plant natsukarekusa (Prunella vulgaris), a symbol of late spring, begins to wither under the weight of the summer sun. This is a subtle sign of nature’s fatigue, having reached its peak and now beginning to breathe a little heavier. This time reminds us of life’s cycles — even fullness contains the beginnings of decline.

Ayame hana saku (菖蒲華, June 27 ~ July 1)
"Irises bloom"

Irises bloom along moist riverbanks and in gardens — elegant, sharply lined, and deeply colored. In Japanese painting and haiku, they symbolize purity, longing, and summer melancholy. Their brief beauty fits perfectly within the aesthetic of mono no aware (more about irises here: Japanese Flower Dictionary – 15 Extraordinary Flowers and Their Symbolism in Japanese Culture).

Hange shōzu (半夏生, July 2 ~ 6)
"Crow-dipper sprouts"

In the middle of the year, when days are longest, the mysterious plant hangeshō (Saururus chinensis) emerges from the soil. Its pale, dusted leaves resemble “letters written in milk and light,” as Japanese poetry describes them. This is also the time when farmers in some regions take a five-day rest, paying respect to the rhythm of nature.

小暑 (Shōsho)

Lesser Heat

(July 7 - 11)

Atsukaze itaru (温風至, July 7 ~ 11)
"Warm winds arrive"

Hot winds begin to blow from the south, signaling the coming rainy season and the heat to follow. The air grows heavier, and the light more intense. It is a time of preparation — nature and humans alike hold their breath before the great blaze of summer.

Hasu hajimete hiraku (蓮始開, July 12 ~ 16)
"First lotuses bloom"

On the surfaces of tranquil ponds, lotuses unfold — flowers of purity, spiritual awakening, and eternal beauty. In Buddhist culture, they symbolize the rise above the mud of the world toward the light of enlightenment.

Taka sunawachi waza o narau (鷹乃学習, July 17 ~ 22)
"Young hawks learn to fly"

Young predators appear in the sky — still uncertain, but already strong. Their first flights are metaphors for growth, courage, and independence. The hawk in Japanese culture is also a symbol of determination and unyielding spirit.

Mindfulness — Even in a Calendar

Let us end here, halfway along the journey — though it is only the first arc of the wheel, we have already seen how precisely and tenderly the Japanese of old divided time. Every five days became a separate story — of a lark’s song, of moist soil, of the tremble in the air of the first flower’s presence. Next week we will continue, following the rhythms of autumn and winter, until we return to the beginning — to the place where everything starts anew.

But for now… perhaps it’s worth trying this experience here, in Poland?

Go out in the evening to the garden or park, sit beneath a tree, close your eyes and ask yourself: what is changing right now? Perhaps the hawthorns have just blossomed, perhaps the air smells of linden for the first time, or maybe the call of the cuckoo has crossed the evening sky? Why not try it for a few days — begin to notice those subtle shifts in nature — the winds, the birds, the colors. Some of the Japanese micro-seasons you may find here almost exactly, just offset by a week or two. Others will be completely unfamiliar. Maybe we need to invent our own?

For that is the true meaning of this calendar: not strict imitation, but relearning how to see.
So I wish both myself and you, dear Reader — may the coming days be your own personal “time of sprouting grass” or “silence before the storm.” Let us meet again next week — and see what the next turn of the earth will bring.

"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)

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Ciechanów, Polska

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