Beyond Winter and Summer: How the Japanese Art of 72 Micro-Seasons Can Deepen Your Daily Joy

In the West, we tend to view the passing year through a wide-angle lens. We treat the calendar as four monolithic blocks of time:

1. Spring

2. Summer

3. Fall

4. Winter

And we have our favorites (usually the warm ones) and the ones we simply endure (usually the cold ones). We wait for the "good" season to arrive and complain when the "bad" one lingers.

But in Japan, the traditional calendar recognizes something much more profound (and much more granular).

Instead of four broad strokes, traditional Japanese culture followed a system known as Shichi-jū-ni Kō (七十二候) that divides the year into 72 distinct "micro-seasons," each lasting only about five days.

💡Note: In modern Japanese, the number 72 is usually pronounced nana-jū-ni (ななじゅうに), with the shichi (しち) pronunciation of seven (七) usually only used when counting up to ten.

By shifting our focus from the macro to the micro, we can transform the way we experience time, nature, and even our own emotions. And this is a great way to expand your Japanese vocabulary and cultural knowledge along the way!

The Architecture of Time: 72 Windows into Nature

The Shichi-jū-ni Kō (七十二候) system was originally adapted from the ancient Chinese lunisolar calendar, but was refined over centuries to perfectly match the distinct climate and biodiversity of the Japanese archipelago.

The system integrates China's 24 "solar terms," called jié-qì (節氣・节气) in Mandarin or sekki (節気, せっき) in Japanese. Each one is then divided into three smaller units called kō (候, lit. "season" or "climate").

The result is a poetic, observational guide to the subtle shifts in the natural world. Instead of a generic "Early Spring," the calendar draws your eye to specific biological and elemental events.

💡 The Japanese appreciate of natural beauty is encapsulated in the 4-character idiom 花鳥風月, which is pronounced ka-chō-fū-getsu (かちょうふうげつ) and literally means "flower, bird, wind, moon."

Consider how the calendar describes the transition from winter to spring:

• February 4th – 8th: Harukaze kōri o toku (東風解凍)

"The east winds start to thaw the thick ice."

• February 9th – 13th: Uguisu naku (黄鶯睍睆)

"Japanese bush warblers start to sing in the mountains."

• February 14th – 18th: Uo kōri o izuru (魚上氷)

"Fish begin jumping through cracks in the melting ice."

Or the specific progression of early summer:

• May 5th – 9th: Kawazu hajimete naku (蛙始鳴)

"Frogs start to croak in the ponds and rice fields."

• May 10th – 14th: Mimizu izuru (蚯蚓出)

"Earthworms begin emerging from the warming soil."

• May 15th – 20th: Takenoko shōzu (竹笋生)

"Bamboo shoots pop up."

This is the concept of Shiki-ori-ori (四季折々), which means taking pleasure "from season to season." It is a reminder that nature is never static; it is a constant, flowing narrative that we can learn to savor.

Unfortunately, most of us in the modern world miss the seasonal progression altogether, as Brendan Burchard sums up in The Motivation Manifesto:

“Locked indoors and hidden behind machines, we missed the entire season—the winter passed and we didn’t play in the snow, the spring bloomed and we overlooked the flowers, the summer and the fall passed so quickly and we don’t even remember the trees changing or feel satisfied with the time we spent outside. Each day there are a million divine wonders, acts of human kindness, and beautiful sights. Yet we are too checked out or busy thinking about yesterday or tomorrow to even sense the magic.”

The Sommelier of Seasons: Why Vocabulary Matters

You might be wondering to yourself:

Why do we need 72 names for seasons?

Think of it like wine tasting. If you know nothing about wine, a glass of red is just "red wine." It might taste "good" or "dry." But as you learn about tannins, acidity, terroir, and notes of cherry or oak, your experience of drinking that wine changes. You stop quaffing and start savoring.

It is hard to notice things when we don’t have a word for them.

By expanding our climatic lexicon, we expand our perception. When we have a name for "the time when the rice ripens" or "the time when the thunder ceases," we are suddenly able to see it. We stop looking at the weather app to see if it’s "good" or "bad" and start looking out the window to see what is happening right now.

This creates what the Japanese call ki-setsu-kan (季節感), or a "sense of the seasons." It is a mindfulness practice that roots you firmly in the present moment.

The Language of Awareness

For those learning a new language—particularly a high-context language like Japanese—this practice of "active noticing" is a secret weapon.

Japanese culture and communication rely heavily on indirectness, atmosphere, and reading between the lines. The Japanese call this "reading the air," or kū-ki wo yomu (空気を読む). The muscle you use to detect a subtle shift in the wind or a slight change in the color of leaves is the exact same one used to pick up on social nuances and unspoken emotions.

Learning the 72 micro-seasons isn't just about botany or meteorolgy; it's about training your brain to pay attention to details. It replaces resistance with curiosity. Instead of fighting the rain, you study it. Instead of dreading the cold, you look for the specific changes it brings to the fauna and flora around you.

Mono no Aware: The Beauty of the Fleeting

Perhaps the deepest lesson of the 72 seasons is the acceptance of impermanence.

In the West, we often try to extend the seasons we like. We blast air conditioning to simulate autumn in July; we fly to the tropics to find summer in January. But the micro-seasons teach us that every state is temporary. A micro-season only lasts five days. If you miss the bamboo shoots sprouting, you have to wait until next year.

This evokes the Japanese principle of mono no aware (物の哀れ), a bittersweet appreciation of the fleeting nature of things. It is the feeling you get when watching cherry blossoms fall. They are beautiful because they do not last.

When you view the year as 72 fleeting moments, you stop waiting for the "perfect time" in the future. You realize that the gray skies of November are just as valid, just as beautiful, just as temporary, as the blue skies of June.

How to Live the Micro-Seasons

You don't need to live in Kyoto to practice this. Whether you are in Tacoma, Tokyo, or Taipei, you can cultivate your own ki-setsu-kan (季節感) and learn to appreciate the mono no aware (物の哀れ) of all living systems.

Here are three tips:

1. Stop Labeling: Catch yourself when you call the weather "bad." Ask instead: What is nature doing today? Is the moss brighter? What direction is the wind coming from?

2. Zoom In: Don't just look at the forest; look at a single tree. A single branch. A single leaf or needle. Observe flower buds. Notice patterns in the clouds, frost, and dirt.

3. Find Your Own Micro-Season: Can you identify the current micro-season you're currently in? Or can you come up with a novel name based on where you live?

   "The time when the pavement smells of rain"?

   "The time when the rhododendrons blooms"?

Life becomes infinitely richer when we stop enduring the passage of time and start flowing with it. The season you are in right now won’t last long, so try to appreciate it before it passes on.