One reason that China’s modernizers rejected the lunar calendar was that it slowly goes off course. Twelve lunar cycles is just 354 days. That’s about ten days short each year. The calendar is corrected every three years by adding a leap month, but this still means that events on the lunar calendar shift relative to the solar calendar from year to year. Sometimes Chinese New Year is in January, sometimes in February.
This might seem insignificant; after all, other religious calendars have shifting dates for their holidays, too. But China’s calendar did more than track religion; it set the pattern for work as well. In agricultural societies like traditional China, farmers needed reliable guideposts to the seasons: when the earth would warm, the rains fall, or the frosts arrive. To figure this out, people had to gauge where the earth was relative to the sun, not the moon.
They did that by tracking the way the sun appears to move through the stars. From the earth’s position as we revolve around the sun, the stars behind the sun appear to be moving. This idea is familiar to Westerners through the signs of the zodiac, which tell which constellation is passing behind the sun. Of course, it is we who are moving around the sun—not the sun through the stars—but the basic idea is right: it tells the earth’s location on its annual 360-degree circuit around the sun. The movement is exact and predictable: about 1 degree around the sun each day of the year.
Ancient Chinese used this principle to group days into fifteen- to sixteen-day mini-seasons called jieqi, or solar terms. Each year has twenty-four—six for each season—and each of the twenty-four has its own special weather patterns, poems, aphorisms, and even rules about which foods to eat—which ones, for example, would cool the body in the summer, warm it in the winter, or replenish fluids in dry months. Their names evoke another, rural era: Grain Rain, Summer Harvest, Frost Descends, Lesser Snows, Greater Cold. In recent years, these solar terms have made a comeback as cultural symbols. In the 1990s, artists began to use them allegorically for political and cultural events. Around 2010, consumer culture discovered them. Magazines devoted special issues to the solar terms, reintroducing readers to the traditional calendar and suggesting the appropriate food, tea, and clothing. In Beijing, a grocery store chain hired folk culture experts to devise a line of special foods for each of the twenty-four solar terms: minced-garlic pies to fight off the increased bacteria in the warming air of the Vernal Equinox; cooling green-bean cakes for Lesser Heat; and a hearty pig’s elbow to build up one’s constitution for the cold days of Autumn Commences. Books and apps explained the poems, myths, and fables associated with them. Elementary schools invited guest lecturers to explain the concept. Friends started signing e-mails with a greeting for key solar terms: A Peaceful Winter Solstice to You! One of the most evocative solar terms is jingzhe, or the Awakening of the Insects. It occurs in early March when spring thundershowers were believed to waken dormant insects. The last of the six winter solar terms, it falls when the earth is 345 degrees around its orbit and planting is just around the corner. After the excitement of the New Year celebrations has faded, the world rouses itself. Tao Yuanming, a reclusive Daoist poet of the fourth century, put it like this: Spring approaches, bringing timely rains / Early thunder, erupting from the east / Hibernating animals, hidden but shocked awake. / Plants and trees, across the land, slowly open up.”
Dongzhi, or the Winter Solstice, is the year’s darkest hour. It is the shortest day of the year, a time dominated by yin, whose main property is darkness. But Chinese prefer to look ahead. Instead of darkness, they see it as the beginning of the ascent of yang, or light—the ultimate expression of the Chinese saying wu ji bi fan: “When things reach their extreme, they must move in the opposite direction.” In politics, this means that extreme openness will move toward contraction, but also the opposite—a reason for optimism during a time of oppression. We often see China in clichés—booms and busts, contractions and crackdowns—and are constantly trying to define it by today’s headlines. This extreme day reminds us to take the long view. Now, as we are 270 degrees through our journey to spring, the chilliest solar terms await: Lesser Cold and Greater Cold, which fall in January. Chinese count off these icy days with a numbers game. The final eighty-one days to spring are divided into nine periods of nine days each—the nine nines. The days start cold, then begin to warm until finally the fields can be plowed, as “as in this popular rhyme: One, two, hands freeze outside / Three, four, ice supports your weight / Five, six, willows start to green / Seven, rivers open / Eight, geese return / Nine, add another nine, and / Oxen fill the fields.
The six mini-seasons that make up China’s summer are about heat and passion, growth and harvest. This duality is symbolized by one of the most important of the summer solar terms, mangzhong, a compound word meaning harvest and planting. Mang means the ear, or grain-bearing tip of a plant—the period when grains like wheat, barley, and peas already have grain in the ear and must be harvested. Zhong means planting, because this is also when autumn crops like maize, sorghum, millet, and soybeans must be put in the ground; any later, and they won’t be ripe before the autumn frosts. This time in early June is so important that until recently even city people could ask for time off work to go back to their homes in the countryside to help out. Now the earth is seventy-five degrees on the plane around the sun, and the next solar terms mark the height of summer: xiazhi, or Summer Solstice in late June, when the days are the longest, and then Little Heat and Big Heat in July. By then the hottest days are already past, and even if it does seem early, the next solar term is Autumn Commences in early August. The summer is home to two of the year’s most colorful festivals. One is the lunar calendar’s second festival of the dead, the Hungry Ghosts Festival, which falls on the fifteenth day of the seventh month, usually in August, when people who died unhappily have to be placated so they do not wander the world and bother the living. The other big festival is Duanwu, or the Dragon Boat Festival, the second festival of the living—the others are the Lunar New Year and the Mid-autumn Festival.
Excerpts From: Ian Johnson. The Souls of China