Chunfen 春分 | Between Yin and Yang – the Quiet Beginning of Spring
春分 (Chūnfēn) — Spring Equinox and the First Breath of Spring
Every year, around March 20, there comes a moment that is almost invisible at first glance — and yet essential. In Europe, we perceive it as the first true day of spring, the time when light begins to clearly return and the days grow longer. In traditional Chinese culture, this moment has its own name and deeper meaning: 春分 (Chūnfēn), the Spring Equinox. Day and night are equal, yin and yang briefly come into balance. It is not the victory of one force over another, but a quiet point of equilibrium from which movement begins.
It is remarkable how gently this transition arrives. Winter has not fully disappeared — mornings may still be cold, shadows long — and yet something in the air has changed. The light feels different, moisture returns to the soil, and the branches no longer carry only silence, but also promise. In the Chinese view of the world, spring is not a sudden shift, but a gradual awakening. And the equinox is the moment when this process becomes inevitable. Yang, associated with warmth, movement, and growth, begins to rise, yet remains in dialogue with the calm, inward yin. The old saying “阴阳平衡” (yīn yáng píng héng) — the balance of yin and yang — is not an abstract idea here, but something that can almost be felt in the body and in the landscape.
Traditional Chinese Medicine describes this period as a time when the movement of Liver Qi awakens and begins to flow freely. The liver is associated with flexibility, with smooth circulation, with the ability to let things unfold without unnecessary force. If energy withdrew inward during winter, it now begins to expand outward again. Sometimes this appears as a subtle restlessness, sometimes as a desire for change — to clear space, to breathe more deeply, to begin again. Not through effort, but through attunement to a rhythm that has already set itself in motion.
In this way, the Spring Equinox naturally resonates with principles of Taoist thought. 无为 (wú wéi), often translated as “non-doing,” does not mean inaction, but acting in accordance with the natural flow of things. Not forcing, not rushing ahead — and yet being part of change. Spring does not arise from decision. It arrives because its time has come.
Taoist texts sometimes say that the greatest transformations happen precisely when nothing seems to be happening. “大音希声，大象无形” (dà yīn xī shēng, dà xiàng wú xíng) — the greatest sound is barely audible, the greatest form has no shape. The Spring Equinox is exactly such a moment. Subtle, yet essential. And perhaps that is why it is a time worth slowing down enough to notice this quiet turning.
Somewhere within this gentle shift, tea also finds its place. Not as a tool that forces change, but as a quiet companion to the season. The first spring leaves, just beginning to be harvested, carry the same quality as the equinox itself. They are light, fresh, not yet fully developed. Their taste is not heavy or full, but clean, sometimes almost delicate — as if it were just being born. In Chinese tradition, these early harvests are especially valued because they capture this precise moment of transition, when the energy of nature is only beginning to unfold.
Right now, in the mountain regions of Yunnan, the first tea buds are appearing. Among the earliest is Bai Ya Bao (白芽苞) — pale buds from wild tea trees, whose delicacy and almost resinous sweetness resemble the very beginning of spring. Alongside them come the first harvests of green and black teas from Yunnan, whose character at this time differs from the rest of the year — lighter, more vibrant, with a clearer aroma and less weight. It is not yet fully developed strength, but rather its first expression.
As the days pass, spring moves further east and north. The first harvests of Chinese green teas begin to appear, including the legendary Bi Luo Chun (碧螺春), whose tiny spiral leaves are among the most delicate expressions of spring. Alongside it comes its Taiwanese interpretation — different in character, yet carrying the same sense of freshness and beginning. These teas, often referred to as pre-Qingming harvests, hold something fleeting. They are limited, fragile, and unrepeatable — just like the moment from which they arise.
Perhaps that is why tea, in these days, is not only about taste. It becomes a way to pause within a change that does not happen suddenly, but through flow. In a cup, water and leaf meet — yin and yang in a small, everyday form. Hot water awakens the dry leaf, the leaf transforms the water, and from their meeting something third emerges: an infusion that cannot be reversed. Just like spring, which cannot be stopped or accelerated.
The Spring Equinox is only a brief moment, almost imperceptible on the curve of the year. And yet it is a moment when something essential shifts — or rather, quietly turns. Each day becomes a little longer, each step a little lighter. There is no need for grand decisions. It is enough to notice that the world has already begun to move.
And perhaps simply pour a cup of tea...