The Seasons in Chinese Medicine — Moving with the Great Turning
The last couple of weeks in Virginia have carried an unexpected gift—a cool snap in the heart of summer. Mornings broke with crisp air, the kind that makes you pull on a sweater before stepping outside. On the weekends, Erin and I woke just after dawn, lit campfires in the backyard, and lingered with our coffee in the early light. We’d trade between reading and catching up on work, the flames dancing low and steady, the scent of woodsmoke curling into the air. Our chickens wandered freely through the grass, scratching and chattering, part of the scene as naturally as the oaks and the sky.
That stretch of weather felt like a quiet bow toward autumn, even though the summer’s thickness has now returned. It had me thinking about the turning of the seasons, the way we’re carried forward whether we notice it or not, and how Chinese medicine places this rhythm at the center of health.
In the classical view, we are not separate from nature’s patterns. Our bodies and minds mirror the movement of the year—the expansion of spring, the full flowering of summer, the ripening pause of late summer, the refinement and release of autumn, and the deep storage of winter. These phases are not only marked by the calendar; they live inside us, reflected in the cycles of our moods, our energy, and the ways we navigate change. The Five Elements—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water—are the language for understanding this constant conversation between inner and outer worlds.
Spring — Wood and the Liver
Spring belongs to Wood, to the Liver and Gallbladder, and to the force that drives a seed to split open. It is the season of beginnings, of upward and outward movement. In the body, Liver qi needs space to move freely, to stretch without obstruction. When we align with this momentum—rising early, moving our bodies, staying flexible in mind and spirit—we nourish both the season and ourselves. Sour flavors and fresh greens awaken the Liver’s vitality, like dew on new grass.
Summer — Fire and the Heart
Summer’s ruling element is Fire, and with it come the Heart and Small Intestine. This is the season of connection, joy, and the full expression of life. The Shen, the spirit housed in the Heart, thrives in laughter, warmth, and shared moments. Summer invites us to reach outward, but also to temper the heat with stillness, cooling foods, and enough rest to keep the flame bright without burning out.
Late Summer — Earth and the Spleen
Between summer and autumn lies late summer, the season of Earth. Here, the Spleen and Stomach take center stage. The harvest is in, and the world holds a softness, a sense of abundance. It is a time to nourish digestion, ground ourselves, and feel the stability that comes from being well-fed—physically and emotionally. Warm, mildly sweet foods, like squash and millet, strengthen the Spleen’s transformative work, turning nourishment into qi and blood.
Autumn — Metal and the Lungs
Autumn is the Metal season, ruled by the Lungs and Large Intestine, and carries the quality of refinement. The trees show us how to let go—releasing leaves not in despair but in preparation for rest. The Lungs breathe in what is pure and clear, and the Large Intestine clears what no longer serves. In this season, we protect our bodies from chill, eat warming and pungent foods, and make peace with the truth that every letting-go is also a making-space.
Winter — Water and the Kidneys
Winter draws us inward. The Water element governs here, along with the Kidneys and Bladder. This is where our deepest reserves—our Jing—are stored and guarded. Like seeds underground, we gather strength in stillness, trusting the cycle that will bring renewal. We turn to quiet, to slow-cooked stews, to early nights, and to warmth at our core. Winter teaches us the power of conserving our energy so we can meet the next season fully alive.
What I love most about this medicine is that the Five Elements and the seasons are not only a map of the year—they’re also a map of our internal processes. In a single day, or in the span of a single emotion, we can move through all five phases. We begin with the sprouting of awareness (Wood), feel the heat of its full presence (Fire), sit with it and digest its meaning (Earth), refine and release what is unnecessary (Metal), and finally store what wisdom remains in the quiet depths (Water). The macro and the micro reflect each other endlessly.
An Invitation
As we approach the turn toward autumn, I invite you to notice the way you move through your own seasons—both the visible ones outside your window and the quieter cycles within your heart. How do you rise into beginnings? How do you meet fullness? How do you pause, release, and rest? In watching yourself with the same attention you might give the turning leaves or the return of geese overhead, you may find that harmony with the outer world begins with a gentler, more rhythmic harmony within. I’ll leave you with my own short reflection of gratitude for the elements and the seasons, and the ways they shape us:
For the Making and the Unmaking
by Ali Warters
Wood,
thank you for your wild insistence,
for the way you split the seed,
for the sap that rises before we feel ready.
You have given us beginnings
and the courage to move,
even when the way forward
was tangled.
Fire,
thank you for your warmth,
for laughter that spills over,
for long days that invite us to linger together.
You have given us joy in full bloom
and reminded us that even celebration
needs a quiet place to return to.
Your light has shown us
that to burn brightly,
we must also tend the flame.
Earth,
thank you for your generosity,
for the sweetness of what is ripened and ready.
You have reminded us to nourish
before we offer,
to stand steady
before the wind changes.
You have also shown us
that holding on too tightly
can make the soil heavy,
and that true stability
has room for movement.
Metal,
thank you for your clarity,
for the sharp beauty of the air
after the first frost.
You have taught us how to release
without bitterness,
and how to be shaped by what remains
without losing our strength.
You have shown us that true refinement
can bend when needed,
but also knows when to cut clean.
Water,
thank you for your depth,
for the stillness beneath movement.
You have shown us the worth of storing,
and the quiet work of restoration.
You have asked us to rest in the dark
long enough to see its shapes,
to meet the currents of fear
without being swept away.
For root and flame,
for field and blade,
for river and tide—
thank you for the making
and the unmaking.
We meet you again
as the circle turns.
