Chapter 17: The Inquiry of "Why": Philosophical Puzzles of Lichun

I. Why Set the Year's Beginning at the Moment "Vital Qi Has Only Just Sprouted," Rather Than at "the Flourishing of All Things"$10

Having come this far, we have elucidated Lichun from many dimensions. Let us now turn to a focused, deep inquiry into several of the most fundamental "whys." The first question is this: why did the ancients set the year's beginning (the start of the year) at Lichun, this moment of "vital qi only just sprouting, the chill not yet fully gone," rather than at a season of full flourishing and bright, mild warmth (such as the Spring Equinox, Qingming, or even summer, when vegetation is most luxuriant)$11

This question touches the deepest core of Chinese temporal philosophy. The answer is this: because what the ancients valued as "beginning" was not "flourishing," but "ji" (几)—that most subtle, most original, most decisive sign of stirring. If the year's beginning were set at the moment of all things' full flourishing, this would be taking the "fruit" as the "beginning," the "stream" as the "source"—reversing root and branch. True "beginning" must lie at that most subtle critical juncture, before all things have yet manifested, when vitality has only just begun to stir. At the time of Lichun, yang qi first rises, solid ice first melts, hibernating insects first stir—everything remains at the stage of "ji," "about to sprout, not yet flourishing." It is precisely this "ji" that determines the course of the entire year. The Zhouyi states, "Ji is the subtlety of movement, the point at which good fortune first becomes visible"—to grasp this "subtlety of movement," this "ji," is to grasp the very foundation of the year.

Behind this lies an extremely profound wisdom of "valuing beginnings" and "valuing subtlety." The Most High said: "A tree that fills the span of one's arms grows from the tiniest sprout; a terrace of nine stories rises from a pile of earth; a journey of a thousand li begins beneath one's feet" (合抱之木，生于毫末；九层之台，起于累土；千里之行，始于足下) (Laozi, chapter 64). And again: "Act upon a thing before it comes into being; govern it before disorder arises" (为之于未有，治之于未乱) (same chapter)—the greatest things all originate from the smallest beginnings; the wisest action is always taken before a matter has yet manifested, before it has yet grown large. Lichun is precisely Heaven and Earth's "tiniest sprout," its "pile of earth," its point "beneath the feet"—it appears faint and weak (vital qi only just sprouting), yet is in fact the very root and source of the entire year's vitality. Setting the year's beginning at Lichun is precisely the solemn realization, within the calendar, of the ancients' fundamental wisdom of "discerning the great from the subtle" and "being cautious at the beginning, valuing the minute."

II. Why Does the Beginning of "Generation" Come Accompanied by "Difficulty" (Tun) and "Cold"$12

The second puzzle follows directly from the "tun" within the character "chun" (萅): why must the beginning of "generation," which Lichun represents, come accompanied by "difficulty" (屯, the difficulty of breaking through the soil) and "cold" (the lingering chill of early spring, warmth mixed with cold)$13 Why is the beginning of life not smooth and effortless, mild and warm$14

This puzzle reveals an extremely profound dialectical insight within Chinese philosophy of life: true "generation" is necessarily accompanied by "difficulty"; the most flourishing vitality reveals itself precisely in the breaking through of obstruction. Without the barrier of frozen earth, the mighty power of a seed breaking through the soil could not be shown; without the seal of solid ice, the achievement of the east wind melting the ice could not be shown; without the lingering chill of spring, the tenacity of sprouting vitality could not be shown. "Tun" (difficulty) is not an obstacle to "generation," but rather generation's touchstone and proving ground—it is precisely in the process of breaking through "tun" that vitality receives its fullest manifestation and its most solid tempering.

This accords entirely with the Confucian spirit that "one is born of hardship" (生于忧患). Master Meng said: "Thus when Heaven is about to confer a great responsibility upon a person, it must first afflict their mind and will, toil their sinews and bones, starve their body and flesh, subject them to poverty, and confound their undertakings, in order to stimulate their mind, temper their nature, and supply their deficiencies" (故天将降大任于是人也，必先苦其心志，劳其筋骨，饿其体肤，空乏其身，行拂乱其所为，所以动心忍性，曾益其所不能) (Mencius, "Gaozi II"). A great undertaking must first pass through arduous tempering. This further accords with the Daoist dialectic of "reversal is the movement of the Dao; weakness is the function of the Dao"—the power of life (the function of the Dao) manifests precisely in the breaking through of the hard and strong (frozen earth, solid ice) by the soft and weak (weakness). Through its "difficulty" and its "cold," Lichun tells us: the beginning of life has never been the ease of the hothouse, but rather that solemn breakthrough, amid the cold wind and beneath the frozen earth, of a soft yet irrepressible tender shoot, straining upward with all its might. This spirit of "rising up amid difficulty" is precisely one of the most precious qualities of life that Lichun has bestowed upon Chinese culture.

III. Why Does Daoism Speak of "the Natural" While Confucianism Speaks of "Welcoming Spring"—How Are the Two Reconciled$15

The third puzzle concerns the tension between the Confucian and Daoist attitudes toward Lichun. Daoism speaks of "the Dao models itself on what is so of itself"—spring arrives "of its own accord," requiring no human intervention; Confucianism, by contrast, speaks of "welcoming spring at the eastern suburbs," of "regulating and completing the Way of Heaven and Earth," of "not violating the farming season"—calling for humanity to actively welcome, regulate, and participate in Heaven and Earth's generative growth. These two attitudes appear opposed—how, in the end, might they be reconciled$16

To reconcile the two, the key lies in understanding this: Confucianism's "welcoming" and "participating" and Daoism's "naturalness" are, in fact, not contradictory, but rather two levels of the very same relationship between Heaven and humanity. What Daoism opposes as "action" (为) is "reckless action," "forced action" that violates what is natural—intervention that acts against Heaven, presumptuous cleverness. What Confucianism advocates—"welcoming spring," "not violating the farming season," "regulating and completing, assisting and coordinating"—is precisely not "reckless action," but "according action" (顺为)—participation that accords with the Way of Heaven, that coordinates with Heaven's timing. Confucianism's "welcoming spring at the eastern suburbs" welcomes precisely that spring which arrives "naturally"; Confucianism's "not violating the farming season" accords precisely with that timing of Heaven which is "so of itself." One might say that the Confucian advocacy of "participating in transformative nurture" is itself founded upon a profound respect for the Way of Heaven's "natural" operation—the very reason humanity must "welcome" and "participate" is precisely because it deeply understands that the Way of Heaven has its own "natural" order, and therefore must humbly accord with it, coordinate with it, bring it to fulfillment—rather than violating it or attempting to remake it.

From this we can see that the "divergence" between Confucianism and Daoism on the question of Lichun is, in fact, a profound complementarity. Daoism reminds us: the Way of Heaven has its own "natural" operation, and humanity must not intervene presumptuously or act with clever self-assertion—this is a wisdom of "withdrawal," a clear-eyed recognition of humanity's limitations. Confucianism, meanwhile, tells us: although humanity must not act recklessly, it can, and indeed ought to, participate actively in the transformative nurture of Heaven and Earth by way of "according with" it—this is a responsibility of "advancing," a solemn affirmation of humanity's agency. One "withdrawal," one "advance"; one "non-action," one "action"—together these constitute the most seamless, most mature Chinese attitude toward Lichun, toward the Way of Heaven: neither arrogantly placing oneself above nature, nor passively standing by outside the Way of Heaven, but rather "participating in Heaven" on the premise of "according with Heaven," "acting" on the foundation of "non-action." This is precisely the most subtle, most profound dialectic within the thought of "the unity of Heaven and humanity."

IV. Why Do We Still Need to Understand the Philosophy of "Beginning" at Lichun Today$17

The final inquiry points toward the present: in this modern society, with its precise solar calendar, its climate-controlled comfort, its agriculture long since highly industrialized, why do we still need to understand Lichun's ancient philosophy of "beginning"$18

Because the wisdom of "beginning" embodied in Lichun is a fundamental wisdom transcending any particular era, bearing upon all life and all endeavor. However the times may change, "the beginning" is forever the most critical, the most decisive moment—"the noble person is cautious at the beginning; an error of a mere hair's breadth may lead to a discrepancy of a thousand li." Lichun teaches us to "value beginnings"—to treat every beginning with solemn seriousness, because destiny is often already determined at the point of beginning. Lichun teaches us to "value subtlety"—to attend to the smallest stirring, because the tree that fills the span of one's arms grows from the tiniest sprout. Lichun teaches us to "rise up amid difficulty"—because true vitality manifests precisely in the breaking through of obstruction. Lichun teaches us to "act in accordance with the season"—to generate and grow when it is time to generate and grow, to set one's resolve when it is time to set one's resolve, for "the plan for the year is made in spring." Lichun further teaches us to "harbor caution amid flourishing"—even at the auspicious moment of "three yang lines opening into Tai," never forgetting the admonition that "Tai reaching its extreme turns to Pi," and thus maintaining caution and diligence even at the very point of beginning.

This wisdom has nothing to do with whether you still consult a gnomon-and-scale, whether you still whip a spring ox, whether you still eat a spring pancake—it concerns, rather, how you treat every "beginning" in your own life, how you set your resolve, strive to sprout with vigor, and remain cautious at the start yet reverent at the end, at the "Lichun" moments of your own life's journey. In this sense, to understand Lichun is to understand those very moments of "beginning" within our own lives—to understand how, at every beginning, one may, like that shoot breaking through the soil, rise up vigorously amid difficulty, grasping hold of that "ji" which determines the whole course to come. This is precisely the fundamental reason why Lichun's philosophy of "beginning," across several millennia, has never grown outdated.