In the rhythmic cycle of the traditional Chinese lunisolar calendar, the transition from spring to summer is marked by a term that sounds less like a weather report and more like a celestial benediction: guyu (穀雨), or “grain rain.”
Arriving around April 20 as spring’s sixth and final chapter, guyu signals a decisive end to lingering frost. “Frost stops at grain rain,” the old proverb promises. It is a season of surging warmth and rising moisture — when the sky nourishes the swelling seeds of a civilization built on the plow.
I grew up in subtropical Taiwan, where the seasons blur into a humid continuum, so the solar terms initially felt like distant agrarian echoes. When I first encountered guyu, my mind did not turn to irrigation, but to a surreal, mythological image: Heaven raining millet.
The imagery stems from the Huainanzi (淮南子), an ancient text recounting the legendary moment when Cangjie (倉頡), the four-eyed sage, invented the first Chinese characters. It is said that then “millet rained from the sky and ghosts wailed in the night.”
To the Han Dynasty scholar Gao You (高誘), this was a divine warning: Heaven foresaw humanity abandoning the honesty of the soil for the deceit of the pen. Yet folklore offers a more triumphant view: the rain of grain rewarded Cangjie’s eschewal of personal wealth in favor of a legacy of literacy.
This connection still resonates globally. Since 2010, the UN has observed Chinese Language Day on April 20, deliberately linking the celebration of the script to the rains of guyu.
In the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), the term “solar term” is elusive. However, within the entry for “young,” a cultural bridge appears. The OED notes a reference to Chinese tea: yuqian (雨前, “before the rain,”) describing leaves plucked before guyu.
The OED’s treatment — leading with the transliteration guyu and following with the literal “grain rain” — offers a model of cultural diplomacy. It mirrors my own approach: lead with the identity-preserving guyu, supported by the poetic grain rain.As the final movement of spring, guyu serves as a visceral sensory bridge to the coming heat. Its folklore is a vibrant blend of nature worship and preventative wellness.
The most refined of these traditions is the sipping of “grain rain tea.” Unlike the tender, fleeting buds of the “Pre-Qingming” harvest, the leaves gathered at this point are lush and fortified by the rains. They are believed to “brighten the eyes” and ward off the lethargy of a shifting season.
In some places, this seasonal appetite takes another form: Xiangchun (香椿, Toona sinensis), the tender reddish shoots of the Chinese mahogany. Known as “vegetables on a tree,” the sprouts mark a fleeting culinary window that closes as summer sun hardens the leaves.
However, the true sovereign of the season is the moutan (mudan, 牡丹, tree peony). In Luoyang, the ancient Chinese capital, its bloom is a municipal event of the highest order.
These “grain rain flowers” represent the pinnacle of floral opulence. As Tang Dynasty poet Liu Yuxi (劉禹錫) wrote: “Only the tree peony is truly a national beauty; when it blooms, it moves the whole capital.”
To visit Luoyang during guyu is to witness a city moved by color — a final, flamboyant celebration of spring.
In the layering petals of the tree peony and the deep green of the rain-washed tea, we find the true essence of guyu it is the moment when the world is most “young” and alive, standing at the precipice of its summer maturity.
Hugo Tseng holds a doctorate in linguistics. He is a lexicographer and a former chair of Soochow University’s Department of English.
When Chinese President Xi Jinping (習近平) sits down with US President Donald Trump in Beijing on Thursday next week, Xi is unlikely to demand a dramatic public betrayal of Taiwan. He does not need to. Beijing’s preferred victory is smaller, quieter and in some ways far more dangerous: a subtle shift in American wording that appears technical, but carries major strategic meaning. The ask is simple: replace the longstanding US formulation that Washington “does not support Taiwan independence” with a harder one — that Washington “opposes” Taiwan independence. One word changes; a deterrence structure built over decades begins to shift.
Taipei is facing a severe rat infestation, and the city government is reportedly considering large-scale use of rodenticides as its primary control measure. However, this move could trigger an ecological disaster, including mass deaths of birds of prey. In the past, black kites, relatives of eagles, took more than three decades to return to the skies above the Taipei Basin. Taiwan’s black kite population was nearly wiped out by the combined effects of habitat destruction, pesticides and rodenticides. By 1992, fewer than 200 black kites remained on the island. Fortunately, thanks to more than 30 years of collective effort to preserve their remaining
After Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) Chairwoman Cheng Li-wun (鄭麗文) met Chinese President Xi Jinping (習近平) in Beijing, most headlines referred to her as the leader of the opposition in Taiwan. Is she really, though? Being the chairwoman of the KMT does not automatically translate into being the leader of the opposition in the sense that most foreign readers would understand it. “Leader of the opposition” is a very British term. It applies to the Westminster system of parliamentary democracy, and to some extent, to other democracies. If you look at the UK right now, Conservative Party head Kemi Badenoch is
A Pale View of Hills, a movie released last year, follows the story of a Japanese woman from Nagasaki who moved to Britain in the 1950s with her British husband and daughter from a previous marriage. The daughter was born at a time when memories of the US atomic bombing of Nagasaki during World War II and anxiety over the effects of nuclear radiation still haunted the community. It is a reflection on the legacy of the local and national trauma of the bombing that ended the period of Japanese militarism. A central theme of the movie is the need, at
RSS