The 72 Micro-Seasons of Japan: When Nature Shapes Creation
By Sébastien Raineri
The first peach buds, the humid wind brings warmth, the plum blossoms begin to smell. What sounds like a poem reflects seasons with evocative names. These fleeting moments are taken from shichijuni ko, seventy-two micro-seasons which divide the year into short seasons lasting barely five days. Inherited from ancient China and adapted to the Japanese climate of the Edo period, this meticulous calendar testifies to a conception of time in deep harmony with the cycles of nature.
More than a simple folkloric curiosity, shichijuni ko deeply permeates Japanese art and crafts. Painting, calligraphy, poetry, ceramics, textiles, or gastronomy: all are nourished by this constant dialogue with the natural world. However, this ancestral link seems to have been weakened in the urban lifestyle of contemporary Japan, where nature often remains on the fringes of everyday life. Faced with this disconnect, a growing interest in this calendar seems to offer a final refuge to a link threatened with extinction, and it is precisely this fragility that makes it all the more precious. The craze for seasonal products in gastronomy, the revival of local crafts, and the influence of nature on art bear witness to this quest for a more organic and harmonious time.
A Perception of Time in Harmony with Nature
Until the Meiji era (1868-1912), Japan followed this lunisolar calendar, which divided the year into twenty-four seasonal periods and seventy-two micro-seasons. This system was introduced to Japan in the 8th century and reflected the subtle variations of nature by giving each micro-season a name inspired by meteorological phenomena, animal migrations, or the plant cycle. Thus, in the heart of the month of May, we observe kiri hashiru (“the first morning mists rise”), while in February, ushiro no kinu (“the song of the larks fills the sky”) marks a delicate moment of spring renewal. This traditional calendar embodied a way of perceiving life in its impermanent dimension. It served as a guide for farmers, indicating the periods of sowing and harvesting, and also influenced cultural and spiritual practices. Poets and painters drew constant inspiration from it and sought to capture the fleeting essence of a specific moment.
The notion of impermanence (mujo) is central in Buddhism and Shintoism, and nourishes this perception of time in perpetual movement. In Japan, the changing of the seasons is experienced as a celebration of the ephemeral beauty of the world. Hanami (contemplation of cherry blossoms) or momijigari (viewing reddening maples in autumn) are not simple picturesque traditions, but rituals that teach acceptance of the passage of time and the transformation of things.
The perception of time in Japan is also distinguished by its influence on art, crafts, and everyday aesthetics. In the tea ceremony (sado), the selection of utensils, kimonos worn by the host, and even the pastries served strictly follow the cycle of the seasons. The same is true in Japanese garden design. Rather than being fixed spaces, they are designed to evolve over the months by highlighting different plants and perspectives depending on the season. This is particularly the case of the famous Kyoto temple, Ryoan-ji, with its dry garden that invites a meditation on permanence and change, where light and shadow constantly redraw the contours of the mineral landscape.
This sensitivity to time and nature deeply permeates artistic expression, shaping the aesthetics and rhythms of Japanese creativity. The micro-seasons provide a framework not only for observing nature, but also for interpreting it through art, literature, and performance.
The Influence of Micro-Seasons on Japanese Art and Crafts
The attention paid to micro-seasons has shaped a unique aesthetic sense in Japan, where the evanescence of the moment becomes a source of contemplation. This precise division finds an echo in traditional arts, notably Noh theater, where the representation of the seasons is manifested in costumes, gestures, and repertoire.
The art of Noh is based on a contemplative temporality, where each gesture, each silence, seems suspended between the past and the future. Each year, the first Noh features Okina, an old man with a wrinkled and laughing mask, whose votive words invoke prosperity, peace, and abundance of harvests. As spring progresses, the spirits of wisteria, willows, and irises come to life on stage, before summer brings the aerial dance of the Noh heron Sagi, descended from the sky to delight Emperor Daigo, in the softness of twilight where the heat finally subsides. Although now locked in the enclosed spaces of theaters (except in summer when, sometimes, performances are given by the light of torches in the open air), the noh stage remains a gateway to the moving cycle of the seasons. The costumes also contribute to this seasonal harmony: the female characters’ kimonos, decorated with flowers and emblems linked to the seasons, seem to quiver in an invisible breeze, animated by the slow twirling of the actors.
This perception of time is found in classical Japanese poetry, whether it is haiku or waka, and is deeply rooted in this seasonal sensitivity. To the four traditional seasons, poets have added a fifth: the time of the New Year. Each gesture, each phenomenon observed during this period takes on particular importance: the first dream, the first brush stroke, the first visit to the temple, but also the first laugh or the first cloud. It is a suspended moment, a pause which invites us to renew our gaze and to celebrate each moment as a new beginning. In the Japanese poetic tradition, the perception of time and the seasons is deeply rooted in the use of kigo; these “seasonal words” which serve as temporal and emotional markers in poetry, particularly in haiku. Since the first anthologies of Japanese poetry, the classification of poems by season testifies to the importance of this sensitivity to the passage of time. Over the centuries, precise rules have been established, imposing the presence of kigo in the introductory verses of tanka, then renga and finally haikai, ancestors of haiku. These kigo do not simply indicate a time of year, they evoke an atmosphere, a sensation, a collective memory associated with nature and Japanese culture. For example, the moon, although visible all year round, is an autumn kigo due to the long clear nights conducive to its contemplation.
More than the designation of a specific point in the annual cycle, it is the emotions linked to a season that poets seek to convey, like the titles of Yasujiro Ozu’s films. Early Spring (1956) or Late Autumn (1960) are not simple temporal indications, but sensitive evocations, resonating well beyond their framework. Among them, Equinox Flower, his first color film made in 1958, particularly embodies this melancholy: it recounts the pain of a father seeing his daughter's childhood inexorably slip away during her marriage, like the scarlet flowers emerging from the ground at the autumn equinox, a symbol of ephemeral youth and a presentiment of decline.
Just like artists, artisans imbue their work with great respect for nature. Techniques, materials, and even patterns evolve depending on the time of year. Japanese ceramics, particularly raku used in the tea ceremony, illustrate this intimate relationship with the passage of the seasons. Potters select clay according to climatic variations and adapt their firing to natural conditions. The texture of the tea bowl, both its imperfections and its colors reflect the season of its creation and that of its use. Kimono artisans meticulously choose patterns and fabrics depending on the time of year. Kasane no irome (overlays of colors) in the imperial court of the Heian period varied according to micro-seasons, evoking the blooms and changing shades of nature. Even today, summer kimonos are made in ro (light and airy silk), while the thick tsumugi fabrics (tinted silk fabric of great refinement) are suitable for the colder months.
As in art or crafts, micro-seasons shape a fundamental aspect of Japanese culture: its relationship with food, where seasonality is elevated to the status of a central principle.
A Gastronomy Guided By the Calendar
One of the fundamental principles of Japanese cuisine is the search for harmony with nature. The concept of shun, which designates the precise moment when an ingredient reaches its peak of taste and nutrition, guides the choices of chefs and amateur cooks. Thanks to the 72 seasons calendar, this notion of shun is pushed to its climax, each product is selected with extreme precision according to the current micro-season. Thus, in the heart of winter, we celebrate the appearance of the first young rapeseed shoots (nanohana) or the sweetness of winter radishes (daikon), while at the beginning of summer, the freshness of cucumbers (kyuri) and the abundance of migratory fish like ayu (sweetfish) mark the table.
This attention to natural cycles also translates into ephemeral cuisine: the dishes are constantly evolving, adapting to minute climatic variations. This transience, far from being perceived as a constraint, is, on the contrary, celebrated as a richness, which encourages us to savor the present moment. A dish tasted today cannot be reproduced identically a few weeks later, thus establishing a form of culinary poetry where time and nature dictate their law.
The 72 micro-seasons have shaped many Japanese culinary traditions, influencing festivals, gastronomic rites, and the menus served in traditional restaurants. For example, Japanese haute cuisine (kaiseki ryori) perfectly illustrates this adaptation to the seasons. Served in a precise order, each dish highlights an ingredient at its peak of flavor. In this approach, the micro-seasons make it possible to further refine the choice of products and their enhancement: a clear fish soup will be enhanced by the delicacy of a matsutake mushroom freshly picked during the micro-season kikuzuki (“when the chrysanthemums bloom”), while a dessert will highlight the appearance of the first wild strawberries in shokan (“moderate cold”).
Japanese sweets (wagashi) also follow this careful cycle. The sweets served during tea ceremonies change according to the 72 seasons, sometimes evoking the melting of snow through translucent pastries, sometimes the blossoming of plum trees through delicately scented cakes. The objective is to create a sensory and emotional connection between the guest and the season, thus reinforcing immersion in the surrounding nature.
If this seasonal sensitivity finds its roots in traditional cuisine, it continues to inspire contemporary chefs, both in Japan and internationally. From Michelin-starred restaurants in Tokyo to rural inns in Kyushu, there are many chefs who draw on the calendar of 72 seasons to design evolving menus deeply rooted in the terroir. This absolute respect for the rhythm of the seasons, far from being a constraint, is a driving force for creativity, which inspires both haute cuisine and home cooking.
Beyond its aesthetic and artistic scope, the subdivision of the Japanese calendar into 72 micro-seasons invites a more intimate relationship with the world around us. In a world where time is increasingly measured by deadlines and digital notifications, the shichijuni ko offers an alternative rhythm, in harmony with the subtle transformations of nature. Though modern urban life has distanced many from this ancestral perception of time, its influence persists, woven into Japanese art, crafts, and gastronomy. Each micro-season, with its fleeting beauty, becomes a reminder that time is not simply a linear progression but a living cycle, intimately connected to the natural world.
Far from being a relic of the past, this sensitivity to ephemeral moments continues to inspire contemporary creators and chefs, reaffirming a cultural identity rooted in the harmony between human life and the environment. Whether in the quiet contemplation of a bowl of tea, the delicate brushstroke of a seasonal painting, or the taste of a perfectly ripened ingredient, the spirit of the 72 micro-seasons endures. It is within this very fragility, this fleeting yet ever-renewed presence, that its value lies, offering not only a connection to nature, but also a way of perceiving and experiencing time itself.
About the Author: Sébastien is a writer and videographer living in Tokyo. Born in 1995 under the sun of Marseille in the South of France, he has been living in Japan since 2022. He has written for several international media outlets, mainly about Japan, art, and cinema. In his free time, he enjoys drinking coffee and taking 35mm photos.
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