Xiang Limin

My earliest understanding of the solar terms dates back to my childhood.

Every year before the Spring Festival， my father would go to town to buy New Years goods， making it a point to purchase a small almanac from Xinhua Bookstore. The almanac was indeed tiny and thin， fitting in the palm of my fathers hand with a red cover displaying the year and zodiac sign. We already had a wall calendar at home， a gift from my fathers workplace， hung in its designated spot， with a page torn off after each day. To me， the content of the wall calendar and the almanac seemed similar. I never understood my fathers insistence on buying the almanac， as if the year would be disordered without it.

He stored the almanac in his private drawer. The drawer contained work-related documents and was supposed to be locked， but he often forgot， leaving the key casually on the desk. Before going to bed， my father would glance at the almanac， make notes， and jot down a few words in the blank spaces. When he wasnt home， Id open the drawer， browse the almanac， and always felt disappointed. From start to finish， it just mentioned what was planted or harvested in the garden on a given day.

Most of the markings were made on solar term days， like Qingming. He would underline the phrase “Qingming without rain indicates a dry Huangmei season， while Qingming with rain forecasts a wet Huangmei season，” then draw an arrow and write “rained.” For my father， the almanac was his farming journal.

Often， when reviewing the almanac， hed share a remark or two with my mother， whod be sewing by the lamplight.

“Springs approaching. Bring out the potato seeds and check their sprouting.”

“In a couple of days， its the start of summer. Harvest some peas and cook them with some cured meat.”

“Autumns nearing. Remind Weidong not to swim in the river.”

“Tomorrow is Limins birthday， coinciding with the first frost. Lets make her a soft-boiled egg for breakfast.”

When my father mentioned these solar terms， doors associated with each solar term would appear in my mind. Every door had its unique color， each with distinct lighting and scent. Passing from one door to the next felt as quick as a tea break， yet as long as an epic journey.

As the New Year approached， only a few pages remained on the wall calendar. Tearing one off made my heart sink as if the past days were nullified and a whole year had vanished. But seeing my father flip through his almanac， I felt comforted， knowing the past days were preserved， with traces of every planting and harvest throughout the year.

Once the new almanac was stored， my mother would keep the old one， stacking them chronologically. Fortunately， they were thin， not taking up much space， but they still managed to fill a wooden box.

After the plum rain season， came the time for sun-drying in the countryside. My mother would open that wooden box and lay out the old almanacs in the yard. Once， during a visit home， I randomly opened one to find a note on the “Start of Spring” day， with my fathers faded handwriting： “Limins home， foraging for shepherds purse， making dumplings， knitting me a sweater.” The cover revealed it was from 1990. That year， I had just graduated， engrossed in cooking and knitting， unaware Id later venture into writing.

At 30， I began my writing journey. After publishing my first essay collection， I started writing about rural landscapes and nature essays. I harbored a vague wish： to pen a book about plants， solar terms， and farming， dedicating it to my parents and hometown. This dream was like a seed buried long ago. After reading Wei Ans unfinished work 1998： The Twenty-Four Solar Terms， it was reawakened. By the shores of Tai Ping Lake， where I live， and by the banks of Pu Xi River， it began to grow secretly and slowly.

Besides essays， this book also includes my poetry and photography. They are gifts bestowed by the gods of nature and represent the landscape of my soul. Walking among the plants of the four seasons， observing， photographing， and writing， I seek my place， hoping not to lose my way in the migration of time， finding solace and owning a garden untouched by the years.

This book is structured around the 24 solar terms， starting with the beginning of spring and concluding with the deep winter. It documents the seasonal transitions in the Puxi River at the base of Mount Huangshan. Each solar term is accompanied by three essays， a short poem， and photographs personally taken by the author， capturing the beauty of different seasons in the mountain in a single volume.

Seasons in the Mountains

Xiang Limin

Huangshan Publishing House

December 2019

49.00 （CNY）

Xiang Limin

Xiang Limin has spent most of her life by the Taiping Lake in southern Anhui and now resides by the Puxi River at the foot of Mount Huangshan. She writes essays， poetry， and fairy tales. Her published works include By the Lake： Taiping Lake Snapshots， Old Times in Objects， Watching Flowers in Leisure， and A Solo Lake Journey， among others.