Micro-Season Finale
Sixty-Seven Through Seventy-Two
September 22nd marked the last day of my project to identify the 72 distinct micro-seasons of the place I call home. This exercise started when My Beloved bought a Grand Seiko watch for himself. I remarked on the beautiful color of the face, which was not a warm white nor a cool cream tone either. He explained that the color of the watch face was inspired by a specific Japanese Sekki or mini-season called Kanro, usually translated into English as “Cold Dew.” Depending on which calendar scale you use, Kanro encapsulates the days between October 8th and 22nd. Each of the 24 Japanese Sekki (seasonal nodes) is divided further into three Kou. Within Kanro reside the three micro-seasons described as ‘Wild geese return’ (Oct 8th-12th), ‘Chrysanthemums bloom’ (Oct 13th-17th), and ‘Crickets chirp around the door’ (Oct 18th-22nd).
As soon as I learned of it, I was transfixed by this ancient practice of noting the subtle nuances of transformation that happen within a season1. It had always seemed to me that referring to both March 22nd and June 19th as “spring” was woefully misleading. Using just one word for both of these points of time is too bland and utterly, inadequately undescriptive of what transpires on those two days and a great majority of the days in between them. From March through June the world is busy doing almost everything it knows how to do—fly, roam, bloom, migrate, wake up, swim to shore, crawl, expand, dig in, climb—in order to survive. And that is, of course, if you live in the Northern hemisphere. That same period of the year, our friends inhabiting the other side of the equator experience the hushing and halting of that vibrant life force slowly retreating in order to store its magic for another day.
Seasonal markers are so much smaller than hemispheres or countries. They are even smaller than states or counties. The Big Island of Hawaii is host to tropical rainforests, arid deserts, temperate zones, and arctic polar tundra. And that is only one island within the state of Hawaii. Given the vast geographic variances of the Big Island, I can’t imagine how one could find a single word or phrase to accurately describe the weekly—sometimes daily—transformations occurring across the island or the state as a whole.
When I set out to identify 72 micro-seasons I wanted to pay attention to what was happening in the small portion of south Whidbey Island that I call home. With more time and energy, I might have managed to catalog the phases across the hamlets of Langley, Clinton, Freeland and Greenbank, but my personal Beagle was not that ambitious. In the end The Dog and I managed to navigate a route fueled only by the power of our collective six feet.
This exercise challenged my preconceived notions of how the expression of seasons maneuver and blend. There were times when alterations unfolded very slowly, with the most subtle changes of color, sound and activity week to week. Other times, it was as if I woke up to an entirely new stretch of land every day. Overall, this project taught me that there is no such thing as lack of movement. Or lack of beauty. For example, January. Nothing going on here (I believed) except a lack of daylight and the scattered remains of decomposing life!
But this isn’t true. There’s quite a lot going on in January. Hellebores are getting ready to bloom. Bald eagles are cruising the perimeters, scouting and building or often re-building their nests. And beyond that, when you stop to listen carefully, you can hear the sweetest, smallest sound you have ever heard—a tiny, thin little chitter-chatter coming from the forest interior.
The first few times I heard this, I had no idea what the sound was. The continuous ‘ti-ti-ti’ sound I heard on my walks challenged me to look up, look down, peer into the heart of the woods. Finally, I spotted a bright golden crown on a round, compact little bird. And when I did, I was immediately resuscitated from my sore and sorry winter mood. Not only that, I now look forward to January’s visit every year. Because: Golden-crowned Kinglets.
Will it make any difference to the state of the world, this walking around I have done, writing about what is growing, emerging, transforming, or letting itself move on in the most gracious way? Maybe not, but it has made me more aware of what it is that I can do, what I am able to be more careful of and thoughtful about. This exercise has allowed me to better appreciate each micro-season’s worth of this gorgeous rock we are fortunate to call home; this slice of life that will look, sound and feel exactly like this for only the briefest period of time before it evolves to something else.
As we all must do, eventually.
Micro-Seasons Sixty-Seven Through Seventy-Two
Sixty-Seven—Leaves lightly blush: Aug 20th - 24th
Sixty-Eight—First huckleberries: Aug 25th - 30th
Sixty-Nine—Squirrels throw cones from the treetops: Aug 31st - Sep 5th
Seventy—First autumn mushrooms: Sep 6th - 11th
Seventy-One—Bucks prepare for rutting: Sep 12th - 17th
Seventy-Two—On western redcedars, branches flag to gold: Sep 18th - 22nd
Late August Clouds - 08.24.24 
September Blooms - Sculpture Garden, Langley, WA - 09.15.24
Thank you for reading. If this project has inspired you to notice something new about where you live, I would love to hear about it.
{| AC
From my understanding, the Japanese did not invent the concept of micro-seasons. My internet searches have informed me that this poetic visualization and recognition of time passing was brought to the Japanese by the Koreans who learned about it from the Chinese. If anyone knows more about the history of micro-seasons, please educate me.
Your descriptions are so beautiful! It inspires me to be more thoughtful about…..everything. 💚