Chapter 5: A Daoist Perspective: Lichun and the "Beginning" of the Dao

I. "The Dao Generates the One" and the Beginning of All Things: The Cosmogony of Lichun

Within Daoist philosophy, the succession of the four seasons is a manifestation, in the dimension of time, of the operation of the Dao. Although the Most High (Laozi) does not directly discuss the solar terms, his descriptions of the Dao resonate at every turn with the quality of Lichun's "generative beginning."

"The Dao generates the One; the One generates the Two; the Two generate the Three; the Three generate the myriad things" (道生一，一生二，二生三，三生万物) (Laozi, chapter 42). The Dao's generative process is one that moves from nothingness to being, from the few to the many, from the simple to the complex. And the operation of the four seasons embodies precisely different stages of this process: winter is "nothingness" and "the One"—all things return to silence and hidden concealment, and Heaven and Earth seem to return to that primordial, undifferentiated source; Lichun is precisely the critical juncture at which "the One" transforms into "the Two," at which chaos begins to differentiate, at which "nothingness" turns into "being." At the time of Lichun, the yang qi that has lain hidden through the entire winter begins to differentiate from and interact with yin qi, and thus "the One" generates "the Two," and Heaven and Earth once again begin the generative process leading toward "the myriad things."

In this sense, what Lichun corresponds to is precisely the most sacred, most subtle link of "beginning" within cosmogony. It is not the completion of generation (that belongs to summer's "growth" and autumn's "fruition"), but the "commencement" of generation—the mysterious moment at which "ji" (几, the extremely faint sign of stirring) has just appeared, and the great transformation is about to unfold in full. The "Great Treatise" of the Zhouyi states: "Ji is the subtlety of movement, the point at which good fortune first becomes visible" (几者，动之微，吉之先见者也). Lichun is precisely the "ji" of Heaven and Earth—the subtlest beginning of the great transformative movement, the sign at which the entire year's fortune and vitality first become visible. The Daoist apprehension of this "beginning," this "subtlety," this "ji," may be said to be extremely profound.

II. "Returning to the Root Is Called Stillness" and "Recovering One's Destiny": Lichun's Place within the Cycle

The Most High said: "The myriad things arise together, and by this I observe their return. Things flourish in profusion, and each returns again to its root. Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is called recovering one's destiny. Recovering one's destiny is called the constant; knowing the constant is called illumination. Not knowing the constant, one acts recklessly and courts misfortune" (万物并作，吾以观复。夫物芸芸，各复归其根。归根曰静，静曰复命。复命曰常，知常曰明。不知常，妄作凶) (Laozi, chapter 16).

This passage describes a complete cycle: the myriad things arise together in vigorous profusion (the "arising" of spring and summer), then each returns to its own root (the "storing" of autumn and winter); returning to the root is to return to the state of "stillness," and returning to stillness is to return to the source of life ("recovering one's destiny"). One who knows this cyclical law is called "illumined"; one who does not know this law and acts recklessly will meet with misfortune.

Within this grand cyclical framework, Lichun occupies an extremely subtle position—it is precisely the turning point from the terminus of "returning to the root and recovering one's destiny" toward the starting point of "the myriad things arising together." Throughout the whole of winter, all things "return to the root" and enter "stillness," sinking into the source of life to "recover their destiny"; and Lichun is precisely the moment at which this "recovery of destiny" has just been completed, and a new round of "arising together" is about to begin. In other words, Lichun marks "stillness reaching its extreme and turning to movement"—after the deepest stillness (winter's storage), the opportunity for turning from stillness to movement, from storage to generation, appears.

This accords precisely with the wisdom of the Zhouyi. The Fu hexagram (䷗, Return), which corresponds to the Winter Solstice, has the image of "the single yang returns"—after the extreme stillness of six yin lines (the Kun hexagram, the tenth month), the lowest line transforms into a yang line, and a single thread of vitality sprouts anew within the utmost yin. The "Tuan Commentary" on the Fu hexagram states: "In Fu we see the heart of Heaven and Earth!" (复，其见天地之心乎) At the moment when all things have returned to their root, at the peak of stillness and yin, what the return of that single yang line reveals is precisely "the heart of Heaven and Earth"—the ceaselessly generative heart at the core of Heaven and Earth. From the Winter Solstice's "return of the single yang" to Lichun's "three yang lines opening into Tai," we witness precisely the process by which this single thread of vitality grows from faint to manifest, from latent to visible. The Most High's "returning to the root and recovering one's destiny" and the Zhouyi's "return of the single yang" converge here upon the same insight: the deepest stillness gestates the newest movement; the beginning of life comes precisely from a return to the source.

III. "The Dao Models Itself on What Is So of Itself" and the Unbidden Arrival of Lichun

The Most High said: "Humanity models itself on Earth; Earth models itself on Heaven; Heaven models itself on the Dao; the Dao models itself on what is so of itself" (人法地，地法天，天法道，道法自然) (Laozi, chapter 25). Humanity takes Earth as its model, Earth takes Heaven as its model, Heaven takes the Dao as its model, and the Dao takes "what is so of itself" (ziran, not a noun but meaning "being so of its own accord") as its model. This fourfold chain of modeling threads humanity, Earth, Heaven, and the Dao together, constituting a complete cosmic order.

At the time of Lichun, this chain finds an especially vivid manifestation. "The Dao models itself on what is so of itself" means that the arrival of spring, at root, is not "determined" by any outside force, but is simply "so of itself." The reason the Dao lets spring follow winter, lets generation follow storage, is not because some external will requires it to do so, but simply because "it is inherently so." Lichun is the most natural thing possible between Heaven and Earth—it arrives unbidden, of its own accord, without being summoned. Whether or not humanity welcomes it, rejoices in it, or is even aware of it, Lichun will arrive precisely on schedule; the east wind will blow precisely on schedule; the solid ice will melt precisely on schedule.

This offers us a profound insight. Confucianism speaks of "welcoming spring at the eastern suburbs," of actively "welcoming" spring through solemn human ceremony; Daoism, by contrast, reminds us that the arrival of spring inherently requires no welcome from humanity—it is "natural," it is "so of itself." This does not mean that Daoism opposes the rite of welcoming spring; rather, it means that what Daoism values more is the posture of "non-action" (无为) that humanity ought to maintain in the face of this self-so operation of the Way of Heaven—not intervening presumptuously, not being clever for cleverness's sake, but simply, quietly according with it, quietly "observing the return." Perhaps the best way of "welcoming spring" is not an elaborate ceremony, but letting one's body and mind, like melting ice, like a stirring insect, like a rising fish, blend naturally and effortlessly into this great rhythm of Heaven and Earth's revival.

IV. Master Zhuang's "Heaven and Earth Possess Great Beauty yet Speak Not" and the Wordless Teaching of Spring

Master Zhuang, in "Knowledge Wandered North" (知北游), said: "Heaven and Earth possess great beauty yet speak not of it; the four seasons possess a clear order yet discuss it not; the myriad things possess a principle of completion yet explain it not" (天地有大美而不言，四时有明法而不议，万物有成理而不说).

Heaven and Earth possess great beauty, yet say nothing of it; the four seasons possess a clear and definite order, yet debate it not; the myriad things possess a principle by which they are brought to completion, yet explain it not. These three phrases fully express the basic Daoist attitude toward Heaven, Earth, and all things—the Way of Heaven operates of its own accord, requiring no explanation, no argumentation, still less any justification.

The arrival of Lichun, in Master Zhuang's view, is precisely a wordless demonstration of Heaven and Earth's principle that "the four seasons possess a clear order yet discuss it not." From winter to spring, Heaven and Earth follow their "clear order"—from storage to generation, from closure to opening, from stillness to movement; yet Heaven and Earth never utter a single word of "discussion" about this, never explain why winter must inevitably pass and spring must inevitably arrive. It simply, silently, lets the east wind blow, lets the solid ice melt, lets hibernating insects awaken. This mode of operation—"speaking not," "discussing not," "explaining not"—is itself the most profound teaching for humanity, the so-called "wordless teaching" (无言之教).

At the end of "The Adjustment of Controversies" (齐物论), Master Zhuang tells the famous story of the "butterfly dream," and proposes the concept of "the transformation of things" (物化)—the boundary between the transformation of one thing into another is not so sharply defined as we tend to assume. And the succession of the four seasons is, in a certain sense, the grandest "transformation of things" of all. Winter "transforming" into spring is not the "extinction" of winter and the "birth" of spring, but the same single vital force transforming between different forms. Lichun is not the termination of winter, but the "transformation" of winter—winter's qi "transforming" into spring's qi, just as Zhuang Zhou "transformed" into a butterfly. Within this "transformation of things," what changes and what does not$11 The form of the qi changes—from concealment and storage into generation and growth, from hidden stillness into sprouting movement; but the essential nature of the qi does not change—it remains, throughout, the same single, ceaselessly generative cosmic qi. This dialectical apprehension of "change and non-change" leads us to realize that although Lichun marks a "beginning," this beginning is not a rupture arising from nothing, but grows continuously out of winter's storage—the qi of Heaven and Earth is never truly severed; it merely changes its own form within the cycle.

V. "Concentrating the Qi to Attain Softness—Can One Become as an Infant$12": Lichun and the Return to Infant-like Simplicity

The Most High said: "In concentrating your qi and attaining the utmost softness, can you become as an infant$13" (专气致柔，能婴儿乎) (Laozi, chapter 10). And again: "Never departing from constant virtue, one returns again to the state of the infant" (常德不离，复归于婴儿) (Laozi, chapter 28).

"The infant" is an extremely important image within the Most High's philosophy, symbolizing life's most original, most simple, most soft, and yet most potential-filled state. And the "sprouting" of Lichun, the "beginning" of spring, bears a profound structural affinity with the image of "the infant." The tender shoot breaking through the soil at Lichun, the newly awakened hibernating insect, the flowing water beginning to move again beneath the newly melted ice—all of these exist in life's most original, most tender, most potential-filled "infant" state.

Why does Daoism so highly esteem this "infant"-like, soft, newly born state$14 Because in the Daoist view, softness is precisely the mark of vitality at its most flourishing. The Most High said: "When a person is alive, they are soft and supple; when dead, hard and rigid. When plants and trees are alive, they are soft and tender; when dead, withered and brittle. Hence the hard and rigid belong to the company of death; the soft and supple belong to the company of life" (人之生也柔弱，其死也坚强。草木之生也柔脆，其死也枯槁。故坚强者死之徒，柔弱者生之徒) (Laozi, chapter 76). While alive, a person is soft and supple; once dead, they stiffen. While alive, plants and trees are soft and tender; once dead, they wither. Hence hardness and rigidity belong to death, while softness and tenderness belong to life.

The things of Lichun are precisely the best illustration of "the soft and supple belonging to the company of life"—how soft and tender is that shoot breaking through the soil, and yet it contains within it the mighty power to burst through the entire earth; how gentle is that soft, flowing water beneath the newly melted thin ice, and yet it foretells the revival of an entire river. What Daoism sees in this "soft newborn state" of Lichun is not fragility, but life's most authentic, most irrepressible force. This also instructs the cultivator of the Dao: at a season such as Lichun, one ought to emulate the newborn infant and the tender sprout, tempering one's own body and mind toward the softest, most simple, and least calculating state, thereby resonating in harmony with the generative qi of Heaven and Earth, "concentrating the qi and attaining softness," "returning again to the state of the infant."

VI. "Governing a Great State Is Like Cooking a Small Fish": The Wisdom of "Non-Interference" in the Governance of Lichun

Daoism offers one further, extremely profound insight into the "governance" of Lichun, condensed in the Most High's famous saying—"governing a great state is like cooking a small fish" (治大国若烹小鲜) (Laozi, chapter 60). To govern a great state is like frying a small fish. In frying a small fish, the greatest taboo is excessive turning and stirring—turn it too much, and the fish falls apart. The same is true of the way of governance: excessive, harassing ordinances, policies changed overnight, frequent disturbance of the common people—under such conditions the state, like that fish turned to pieces, suffers grave injury to its vital essence.

Why is this wisdom especially pertinent to the governance of Lichun$15 Because the spring that Lichun opens is precisely the season in which all things first sprout, when vital qi is at its most fragile and most in need of "growing quietly, undisturbed." At precisely this moment, the greatest good governance is precisely "non-disturbance"—not disturbing the vitality that is just now sprouting. This accords entirely, in spirit, with the series of prohibitions in the "Monthly Ordinances" of the Book of Rites for the first month of spring—"the felling of trees is forbidden," "no earthworks shall be undertaken," "no large-scale conscription of the populace," "arms shall not be raised." The core of these prohibitions is entirely a matter of "do not"—all instructing people what "not to do," rather than what "to do." This is precisely the manifestation, in the governance of Lichun, of the Daoist wisdom of "non-action" (无为): in the spring when all things first come to life, what a ruler ought most to do is not to undertake grand projects or display their own initiative, but to withdraw all actions that would disturb the people, allowing the common people to peacefully attend to spring plowing, and allowing all things to peacefully sprout and grow.

From this, we can better appreciate the subtle complementarity between Confucianism and Daoism in the governance of Lichun. Confucianism speaks of "spreading virtue and dispensing beneficence," "bestowing rewards and dispensing favor"—this is the aspect of "action" (有为), the active bestowal, rewarding, and benefiting of the people; Daoism speaks of "governing a great state is like cooking a small fish," of "not disturbing"—this is the aspect of "non-action" (无为), the passive avoidance of disturbance, exploitation, and conscription. Yet upon closer examination, the two in fact arrive at the same destination by different paths: whether it is Confucianism's "dispensing beneficence" or Daoism's "non-disturbance," both are, at root, aimed at protecting that newly sprouting vitality—dispensing beneficence "nurtures" its life, while non-disturbance "does not harm" its life. At Lichun, this season when vital qi is just sprouting, "nurturing its life" and "not harming its life" are, from the outset, two sides of the very same heart of cherishing life. The most consummate governance of Lichun is precisely this seamless unity of "dispensing beneficence" and "non-disturbance"—nurturing vitality with generous virtue, while not disturbing its growth through a heart of non-action, so that this year's vital qi, amid the least human interference and the most humanistic care, may sprout and flourish smoothly.