1. A Scene: Jingzhe at Giào Giào
March 5, 2025. Jingzhe — the day of the "Awakening of Insects." In Florence, dusk arrives six hours later than in Beijing.
At my Chinese restaurant Giào Giào, the kitchen is bustling. Outside the window, the Arno River glimmers with orange light, and the willows along the bank are just beginning to show a hint of green — barely noticeable unless you look closely. Italian spring always arrives this way: tiptoeing in quietly, nothing like the grand, trumpet-blaring entrance of spring in Jiangnan, China.
Marco is sitting at the bar. He has been my friend for fifteen years, sixty-two years old, a Florentine born and bred. Before retiring, he taught European classical history at the university. White hair, gray sweater, a cup of Dragon Well tea I brewed for him in his hand.
"Liu," he says, tapping the bar with his index finger, "I passed by Piazza San Marco today and saw a bird on a tree singing loudly. Then a Chinese girl walked past and said to her friend: 'Today is Jingzhe. The insects are coming out.'"
"She's right," I say, placing a freshly stir-fried plate of spring bamboo shoots in front of him. "Today is Jingzhe."
"What does zhe mean?" Marco asks.
"Zhe means 'to hide.' In winter, insects hide in the soil, neither eating nor moving — it's called hibernation. Jingzhe means the spring thunder awakens the insects."
"Spring thunder?" Marco looks up at the window. "There was no thunder in Florence today."
"It doesn't mean actual thunder," I laugh. "It's a Chinese way of understanding time. We believe that from this day on, life underground is 'awakened.' Insects emerge, birds begin to sing, buds push through the soil."
Marco takes a bite of the bamboo shoots and his eyes narrow.
"So you Chinese use insects to judge the seasons?"
"No," I set down the teapot, "we use solar terms."
"Solar terms?"
"The Twenty-Four Solar Terms."
Marco puts down his chopsticks and looks at me seriously. As someone who taught European classical history for forty years, his instinctive guard goes up every time he hears the phrase "Eastern system of time" — just like my guard goes up when I hear "Roman calendar."
"Twenty-four... what?" he asks.
"Let me explain." I pull over a chair and sit across from him. "But you have to put down your 'historian' hat. Just listen as if a fellow Florentine were telling you an old family story."
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2. A Gentle Misunderstanding: Solar Terms Are for Farmers?
"Marco," I say, "do you know how big China is?"
"Yes. About the size of all of Europe."
"Right. From the northernmost point to the southernmost, China spans five climate zones. From Heihe in the far north, where winter temperatures hit forty below zero, to Hainan Island in the far south, where it's spring all year round — all Chinese people use the same time system."
"And Europe?" I continue. "Do you have a unified concept of seasons?"
"Of course," Marco says. "Spring, summer, autumn, winter."
"Then let me ask you: is the winter in Finland the same as the winter in Sicily?"
Marco pauses.
"No."
"Then how do you define 'winter'?"
"December, January, February," he says. "On the calendar."
"Right," I say. "You use 'months' — invented by the Romans, who divided the year into twelve equal parts of about thirty days each. It's very uniform, very precise, and also... how to put it... very 'artificial.'"
"The Chinese Twenty-Four Solar Terms were not cut out — they grew out of the earth."
Marco raises an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
"Solar terms don't come from the calendar. They come from the ground," I say. "The Spring Equinox is not March 20th or 21st. It's the day the sun reaches zero degrees of celestial longitude. The exact date varies by only a few hours each year."
"The Winter Solstice is not December 21st. It's the day the sun reaches 270 degrees of celestial longitude — the day with the shortest daylight in the year."
"So solar terms are not 'fixed dates.' They are 'natural positions.'"
Marco nods, but his expression still holds a trace of confusion.
"Okay, I understand," he says. "But the question is: what's the use of this system now? China hasn't been farming for a long time, has it? Shanghai, Beijing, Shenzhen — they're all skyscrapers."
"You've hit the nail on the head," I smile. "That's the biggest misunderstanding."
"Europeans think the Twenty-Four Solar Terms are 'something for farmers' — for tilling the land, watching the sky, outdated."
"But think about it: more than sixty percent of China's population is urban now, yet every year at the beginning of spring (Lichun), noodle shops in Beijing have long lines out the door. Every Winter Solstice, dumpling restaurants in Shanghai are packed to the rafters."
"Why?"
"Because solar terms are not for farmers. They are for people."
"Farmers use them to decide when to sow — that's true. But city dwellers use them to decide when to eat dumplings, when to drink new tea, when to put away the thick winter quilts."
"Solar terms are not an agricultural calendar. They are a rhythm of life."
Marco is silent for a moment, then takes another sip of his Dragon Well.
"So what you're saying is," he says, "like when Italians say agosto — the whole country goes on vacation, not because it's a law, but because it's too hot to survive without a break?"
"Something like that," I say, "but deeper."
"Solar terms are not about 'when to take vacation.' They are about 'what your body should be doing at this time.'"
"Your body knows the beginning of spring. Your body knows the winter solstice."
"You just never pay attention."
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3. The Chinese Explanation: What Are the Twenty-Four Solar Terms?
I get up, pull out an old notebook from under the bar, and open it to a page covered in circles and Chinese characters.
"Let me draw it for you," I say. "The Twenty-Four Solar Terms divide the year into twenty-four 'nodes.'"
"Each node is about fifteen days. But unlike your months, they don't stay fixed — they follow the sun."
"Chinese people started observing these nodes as far back as the Western Zhou dynasty. By the Han dynasty — around the same time as your Roman Empire — the system was fully mature. It's more than two thousand years old."
"The twenty-four terms are divided into four categories:"
"First, the 'Four Begins' — Lichun (Start of Spring), Lixia (Start of Summer), Liqiu (Start of Autumn), and Lidong (Start of Winter). These mark the beginning of each season."
"Second, the 'Two Equinoxes and Two Solstices' — the Spring Equinox, Autumn Equinox, Summer Solstice, and Winter Solstice. These are the four key points of daylight change in the year."
"Third, the 'Water' terms — Yushui (Rain Water), Guyu (Grain Rain), Xiaoxue (Light Snow), and Daxue (Heavy Snow). These are about precipitation."
"Fourth, and most interesting, the 'Life' terms — Jingzhe (Awakening of Insects), Qingming (Clear and Bright), Xiaoman (Grain Buds), and Mangzhong (Grain in Ear). These mark the rhythm of living things."
Marco leans in to look.
"So you don't just have four seasons, you have twenty-four?"
"No, the four seasons are still there," I say, "but within each season, Chinese people can sense much more subtle changes."
"For example, spring:"
"Lichun — The vital energy begins to rise, but it's still cold."
"Yushui — Ice and snow melt, the ground begins to dampen."
"Jingzhe — Insects wake up, birds begin to sing."
"Chunfen — Day and night are equally long; spring is half over."
"Qingming — The sky is clear and the earth is bright; time to sweep the graves."
"Guyu — Rain gives birth to a hundred grains; time to sow the crops."
"Marco, can you feel these distinctions?"
He frowns and thinks.
"I can feel 'spring is here.' But the difference between Yushui and Jingzhe... I can't tell them apart."
"Because you've been trained by months," I say. "March is March, April is April. You're used to 'uniform' time."
"But Chinese people are trained by solar terms from childhood. We celebrate Qingming, we celebrate the Winter Solstice, we eat spring pancakes, we drink realgar wine. These twenty-four markers are embedded in our bodies."
"'Before and after Qingming, plant melons and beans.'"
"'Three mornings after Grain Rain, watch the peonies bloom.'"
"'Dumplings at the Winter Solstice, noodles at the Summer Solstice.'"
"These aren't dusty old proverbs. They're rhymes we recited from childhood. They're not knowledge written in books — they're living memories in the body."
Marco looks up.
"So you can actually 'feel' the difference between Rain Water and the Awakening of Insects?"
"Not everyone," I say honestly. "Young people today can't tell them apart either. But if you ask an eighty-year-old Chinese person, they can tell you: the air on Rain Water day is 'damp and cold,' while the air on Jingzhe day is 'damp and warm.' They can smell it."
"Just like an old Florentine can smell when it's time to swap the heavy winter curtains for the light summer ones."
Marco laughs.
"My grandmother could. Every year, on the day before the spring equinox, she'd change the curtains — never a day off."
"You see," I say, "you have solar terms too. You just don't call them that."
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4. The Deeper Logic: Why Chinese People Need Twenty-Four Markers
The night has grown deep. The guests at Giào Giào have left one by one. Marco's Dragon Well has been refilled three times, and he still hasn't left.
"Liu," he says, "I still have one question."
"Go ahead."
"Why do Chinese people slice time so finely? Twenty-four markers? Don't you find it exhausting?"
I pause. This is a question it took me years to understand.
"Marco, you've lived in Florence for sixty years. Tell me: is the summer in Florence the same as the summer in Bologna?"
"No," he says. "Florence is drier; Bologna is more humid and stifling."
"Right. Same country, same 'summer,' but the feeling in two cities is completely different."
"Now imagine: China. From north to south, east to west, the climate differences are greater than all of Europe combined."
"If Chinese people only used 'spring, summer, autumn, winter' four seasons, then someone in Yunnan would say: We don't even have a winter. Someone in Harbin would say: Our winter lasts six months."
"How could a single unified time system work across a country this vast?"
"The answer is: the Twenty-Four Solar Terms do not describe the weather. They describe the movement of the heavens."
"They don't tell you 'what the temperature is today.' They tell you 'where the sun is right now.'"
"At the beginning of spring, Heilongjiang may still be twenty below zero, but the sun has already reached 315 degrees of celestial longitude. Hainan may already be twenty degrees above."
"But both places know: 'It's Lichun.'"
"Lichun is not weather. It's a signal — telling all Chinese people, no matter where you are: the vital energy has begun to rise."
"This signal connects Chinese people to one another."
Marco looks at me without speaking.
"When I first arrived in Germany in 1998," I say, "it was my first time spending the Winter Solstice abroad. In Germany, it gets dark by four in the afternoon. I sat alone in my dorm room, and suddenly I had an intense craving for dumplings."
"At the time, I didn't know why. I just wanted to eat them."
"Later I understood: my body knows the Winter Solstice. No matter whether I'm in Frankfurt or Florence, my body knows this is the day with the longest night of the year."
"It knows it's time to eat dumplings."
"Not because dumplings are delicious — though they are — but because the act of eating dumplings is a thread connecting me to China, thousands of miles away."
"Solar terms are that thread."
"They allow every Chinese person, no matter which corner of the earth they are in, to stay 'in sync.'"
"Someone in Shanghai eating spring pancakes on Lichun, and a Chinese student in London eating spring pancakes on Lichun — they are consuming the same qi."
Marco lifts his teacup and gently taps it against mine.
"That's beautiful," he says. "We Europeans don't have this."
"Yes, you do," I say. "You just don't call it 'solar terms.' You call it 'tradition,' 'custom,' 'the way Grandma did it.'"
"Italians harvest grapes in autumn and eat fresh pecorino in spring — isn't that a solar term?"
"You just didn't systematize it. You left it in life, rather than extracting it into a formal system."
"What's special about Chinese people is not that we have solar terms — it's that we turned them into poetry, into calendars, into medicine, into music."
"Each of the twenty-four solar terms has a corresponding color, sound, taste, and emotion."
"Lichun — green, jue (wooden pipes), sour, anger."
"Xiazhi — red, zhi (stringed instruments), bitter, joy."
"Qiufen — white, shang (metal bells), pungent, sorrow."
"Dongzhi — black, yu (drums), salty, fear."
"This is not superstition. It's a complete 'perceptual system.'"
"It allows Chinese people not just to 'know' the seasons, but to 'feel' them."
"The beginning of spring is not just 'spring has started.' It's 'your body should be rising and expanding.'"
"The Winter Solstice is not just 'the longest night.' It's 'your yang energy should be protected.'"
"This kind of perception gives Chinese people a... how to say it... an intimate relationship with nature."
"Not the relationship between a scientific observer and the object being observed, but between two dance partners."
"Nature is dancing, and Chinese people follow its rhythm."
Marco smiles.
"Now I understand," he says. "The Twenty-Four Solar Terms are not about farming. They're about how to live."
"Yes," I say. "And about how to follow life."
---
5. Learn a Chinese Word: Qi — Invisible, But Everywhere
"Speaking of solar terms," I pull out a pen from my pocket and write a character on a napkin, "today we'll learn a Chinese word."
On the paper is one character: 气 (qi).
"This is the qi of solar terms."
"Qi may be the most important character in Chinese. It has a hundred meanings, but the core meaning is only one: the living energy that flows through the universe."
"Its oracle bone script shows three things rising upward — like clouds, like smoke, like breath."
"So the original meaning of qi was 'air' and 'breath.'"
"But Chinese people soon realized: qi is not just what we breathe. It is the driving force behind all things."
"Wind is qi moving."
"Clouds are qi gathering."
"Temperature is the warmth or coldness of qi."
"Even human emotions are changes of qi — anger (shengqi), joy (xiqi), frustration (menqi)."
Marco leans in to look at the character.
"So qi is a bit like... the Greek pneuma?"
"Very much so," I say. "Pneuma is breath, it is soul, it is driving force. Chinese qi is the same."
"But Chinese people developed qi into a complete system."
"Solar terms are the 'nodes of qi.'"
"Throughout the year, qi does not flow evenly. It has peaks, valleys, and turning points."
"Lichun — qi begins to rise."
"Chunfen — the speed of qi rising is fastest."
"Xiazhi — qi reaches its highest point, then begins to descend."
"Qiufen — the speed of qi descending is fastest."
"Dongzhi — qi reaches its lowest point, then rises again."
"The human body also has qi."
"In spring, your qi moves from your internal organs toward the surface of your body — so you feel refreshed and want to move."
"In summer, your qi reaches the surface — so you sweat easily and tire easily."
"In autumn, your qi retreats from the surface back to your internal organs — so you feel contracted and want to be still."
"In winter, your qi is hidden in your internal organs — so you feel drowsy and want to sleep."
"That's what solar terms are."
"They tell you: the qi of nature is changing, and the qi of your body is also changing."
"What you should do is not fight it, but go with it."
Marco stares at the character for a long time.
"So qi is not superstition," he says. "It's a model. A model for understanding nature and the human body."
"Yes," I say. "Just like you use 'atoms' to explain matter, Chinese people use 'qi' to explain life."
"Atoms are invisible, but you believe they exist."
"Qi is also invisible, but Chinese people believe it exists."
"And Chinese people believe: qi is not just present. It flows. It changes. It dances."
"What you need to do is learn to listen to its rhythm."
"Solar terms are the conductor's baton."
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6. One-Sentence Summary: What It Took Me 25 Years to Understand
Marco stands up and puts on his jacket. Giào Giào is about to close.
"Liu," he says, pausing at the door, "next Jingzhe, I'll come back for your spring bamboo shoots."
"Good." I smile. "But next Jingzhe, you tell me: can you smell the change in the air?"
"I'll try," he says. "Now I know what to look for."
The door closes behind him. I stand alone at the bar, looking at the character qi written on the napkin.
Twenty-five years.
In 1998, I was in Germany. The first time I heard the term "solar terms," I thought it was some old relic.
In 2007, I was in Spain. The first time I spent the Winter Solstice abroad, I suddenly craved dumplings. I thought it was just homesickness.
In 2015, I opened Giào Giào in Florence. That first Winter Solstice, I cooked a plate of dumplings for myself and ate them alone in the empty restaurant.
In 2025, on the day of Jingzhe, an old Italian professor sits across from me and says: The Twenty-Four Solar Terms are not about farming. They're about how to live.
It took me twenty-five years to understand one thing.
> Solar terms are not a calendar. They are a musical score written by Chinese people for life itself.
>
> It took me 25 years to understand: when I stopped asking "Are solar terms scientific?" and started asking "What does the air taste like today?" I was no longer learning a piece of knowledge. I was learning a way of living — dancing to the rhythm of nature, rather than walking to the mechanical beat of a clock.
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Have you ever noticed how your body has a different "qi" throughout the year? Do you feel more like moving in spring and more like sleeping in winter? Tell me how you feel — the next xiaokz article might be written just for you.