The Cosmic Cycle: Yin and Yang
In a palace shaped by seasons, Yang rises from a spark to a blazing emperor before fading into shadow. Yin, steady and wise, expands through stillness and reflection. This tale of cosmic succession weaves through joy, unraveling, and return—an eternal dance of power, presence, and the rhythm of time.
Years ago I listened to a recorded lecture from one of my favorite Chinese cosmological teachers, Liu Ming, where he off-handedly talked about Yang as an emperor of China. That is, he had crafted a neat metaphor for the movement of qi through the lens of Chinese imperial intrigue. He never fully told the story, but you’d get little snippets here and there that gave me a little taste for this remarkably vivid tale of cosmic enfolding. So, I decided to finally write it out. Below is a storybook telling of the endless cycle of Yin and Yang. Thanks for the inspiration Ming, you are deeply missed.
A Tale of Yin and Yang Through the Seasons
At the waning edge of winter, atop frozen soil and beside deep snow drifts, the palace lies quiet. In its dim corridors, Empress Yin rules—not with force, but with gravity. She is composed, ageless, elegant. She wears robes the color of smoke and old bone, and she walks with the authority of someone who has seen many cycles. The court respects her deeply, though few understand the depth of her wisdom. She watches the land with calm eyes, aware that her time is nearing its turn.
Beneath her care, a subtle fire barely glows in the brazier of Heaven's hearth. From a glowing ember, a child is born. He is small, restless, always moving. This is Yang, a prince of heaven, but still just a seed of what he will become. She wraps him in thick robes, feeds him warm broths, keeps him close. She sees in him not just potential, but inevitability. The future will be his. But not yet.
As the calendar turns toward spring (Lìchūn 立春 ), the air still holds winter's bite. Yang, the young prince, plays carefully in cold courtyards, his laughter muffled by woolen layers. He presses his hands to the frost-covered windows, watches birds stir in bare branches, and kicks up dry leaves still left from autumn. His breath fogs the air. He is not ready to bloom, but he is watching—waiting, learning the rhythm of the light.
Empress Yin keeps him close to the hearth. She feeds him rich congee, wraps his small hands in silk, and murmurs old stories about the seasons to come. She is still in full command, her court steady and dignified, her presence the axis upon which the world turns.
As the days grow longer, the garden soil begins to warm. Buds swell, and small green shoots push through cracks in stone paths (Jīngzhé 惊蛰). Yang grows stronger, his voice louder. He sheds his layers more eagerly now, dashing barefoot in moments, though still called back to warmth when the wind rises. His laughter returns to the courtyards with a new brightness, his curiosity sharpening as he questions the guards, the gardeners, and the scholars who pass through the halls.
By the time of Spring Equinox (Chūnfēn 春分), Yang stands taller. His movements are confident, his energy infectious. He begins to take small roles in court life, bringing light and warmth with him. The empire stirs under his presence. Though Yin still governs, her posture has softened and her courtiers begin to include the young Yang in their discussions. She watches his rise not with worry, but with knowing.
As the weather reflects a real warmth the people associate with Spring (Gǔyǔ 谷雨), Yang is now a young man. The trees explode with flowers, anticipating the fruit that will grow and spring crops push through soil with excitement. Yang begins to speak in council, not just to learn but to lead. His clarity, his vision, his energy inspire the court, and people feel more alive around him. Empress Yin has grown more grandmotherly—her presence softer now, more distant. She no longer walks far from her chambers, but her gaze remains sharp. She watches as her grandson comes into his power and smiles softly to herself.
As Summer begins (Lìxià 立夏), Yang is crowned Emperor, and he sits upon the throne of Heaven. He is golden and tall -- his robes shimmering like sunlight on water. Under his rule, the empire blooms and fields overflow; rivers rush. Trade, laughter, and labor all dance in the heat of his glory. He builds bridges, leads hunts, reforms old laws. Artists and philosophers flourish under his protection. Festivals stretch into the night, and the common people sing his praises in poems and songs. He is not only powerful, but admired—a symbol of vitality, purpose, and light.
Empress Yin no longer appears in court. Her strength has waned. In her final days, she watches the gardens from her window, her hands folded, her face serene. Just before solstice, she slips away without fanfare, returning to the Earth she once ruled.
At the peak of Summer (Xiàzhì 夏至), Yang reaches his zenith. His courtiers sing his praises in endless scrolls. The empire is dazzling. The land pulses with vitality. Yang stands at the center of it all—radiant, resplendent, unstoppable.
But something in him has begun to flicker. At night, he dreams of cold winds and quiet halls, waking with unease. He notices new lines at his temples and a tremor in his fingers after speeches. He begins to wonder—who will come next? Will they honor what he has built, or sweep it away?
He feels his hold on power growing soft, so he tightens his grip. He grows wary of succession. Questions in council grow sharp, and he rewrites old laws, not for justice, but preservation. His greatness has not vanished—but now it guards rather than gives.
Yang's smoldering paranoia begins to burn too hot (Dàshǔ 大暑 ). The more he clings, the more the fire turns inward. Ministers walk in fear. The once-lively court grows hushed. Where once he inspired, he now watches shadows on the walls, convinced they conspire against him.
What he built now feels fragile, something easily taken by a greedy successor, and the weight of preserving what he has made presses heavily on his shoulders. His sons whisper in the corridors—he hears their voices, never their words. His meals are tasted three times. His sleep is broken by dreams of smoke - the scrolls detailing his mighty deeds burning to ash.
He lashes out, throwing goblets and shouting in anger. He storms through halls in the dead of night. The land dries, fires spark, storms become violent. Crops wither. Even the sky grows weary of his rage.
He begins to consider darker things -- rewrites to the rules of ascension; purges of his heirs and theirs. His legacy looms large—but he can no longer see where it ends and he begins.
In a quiet corridor of the palace, a child coalesces from the darkness and a mild evening breeze. She is barely more than a whisper—Yin reborn. Not the old Empress, but her descendant. She wears no crown. She carries no sword. But her presence cools the air.
When she takes the Emperor's hand, something stirs deep within him—an echo of a memory, soft and piercing. He sees the old Empress Yin, his grandmother, as she once was: her steady gaze, her warm bowls of broth, her hands wrapping his in silk. He remembers the way she ruled—not through command, but through presence.
The child does not speak. She does not need to. Her silence contains the weight of lineage, the rhythm of seasons, the calm inevitability of change.
Yang looks into her eyes and realizes that the changes he has been fighting are not a threat, but are part of an infinite continuity. The shifting focus is not erasure, but remembrance. His fire, long untamed, begins to settle. The roar within him quiets to his own steady heartbeat. The raging heat in his chest gives way to a soft, aching warmth.
He weeps—not in despair, but in relief.
And he begins to fade.
The season turns and Autumn begins (Lìqiū 立秋). The whole empire’s posture changes, becoming softer as its leader shifts. Yang no longer commands attention, but walks with quiet dignity. He has rescinded his violent orders and made space for child Yin's training and encouragement. He watches her growing stronger. Yin asks questions. She studies the stars and the scrolls. Her mind is sharp. Her movements graceful. The court begins to notice her—not as a novelty, but as a presence.
For some people in the court, Yang's decline feels like a loss. They miss his vibrancy, his potency. But Yang reminds them that this is not a time of mourning, but of transition. As Yang fades, Yin blossoms. Her elegance deepens. Her voice is low, steady. She is a student of history and a keeper of lineage. She walks with her grandmother’s memories in her blood.
This is not the end of Yang. It is the maturation of Yin.
Yin ascends to the throne as Winter begins (Lìdōng 立冬). There is no parade of trumpets, no grand decree—only the silent, seamless knowing of the court. She does not seize power. She inhabits it. Her posture carries the gravity of the ancestors. Her crown is delicately woven silver studded with opals and saphires. Her presence is cool and luminous, a lantern in a long corridor.
Under her rule, the palace deepens (Xiǎoxuě 小雪). The music grows slower, more intricate, more complex. Dignitaries speak in lower tones. Rich foods—root vegetable stews, glutinous rice, spiced broths—are served with quiet reverence. She recalls the lineage of rulers past, weaving their memory into her counsel.
Yang, now fully faded, lingers only in warmth—by the hearth, in dreams, in the firelight of her gaze.
In the deepening dark of Winter (Dōngzhì 冬至) the palace glows with lantern light. The air is cold, but the halls are full. Empress Yin presides over a court rich in song and ceremony. Musicians play ancient melodies. The scent of braised meats and warm grains fills the air. Elders share stories beside braziers. Children recite poems beneath embroidered banners. Time slows.
There is no shouting, no striving—only a deep, reflective stillness. A quiet majesty. Her reign is one of nourishment, memory, and depth. She gathers the past into the present like a cloak and wears it lightly, beautifully.
Yet even after Solstice, Yin's power expands. The days remain short, the wind sharper (Dàhán 大寒). Snow thickens on the stone steps of the palace, and frost etches the windows with delicate, unspoken truths. Her court grows even quieter, not with absence but with reminiscence.
Yin moves through the chambers like a dream remembered. Her presence invites silence, reflection, restoration. It is a time of keeping close, of drawing inward, of sitting with what is real. The foods are darker now—black sesame, fermented beans, strong teas. The songs echo farther in the cold, their notes clinging to the walls like stories.
She does not seek stimulation, only stillness. She does not resist the coming end. In this, she is different from Yang. She will not fight the fading of her influence, because she knows it is not an ending. It is a return.
And in the quietest room of the palace, she watches the hearth. And at its center, a single ember stirs again.
The cycle begins anew
The Whole Story
Qi Node 22: Winter Solstice
The grandeur of Yin is on display during the longest night of the year. Learn more about what this point in the annual Yin Yang Cycle means for you.
Seeing The Qi All Around Us
The movement of qi in the environment is an endless and inevitable process. Yin and Yang are constantly interacting with one another in the smallest of circumstances as well as on a cosmic level. Solstice days are great opportunities to look at the annual cycle when it has more clear definition. That is, Winter and Summer solstice have visible and palpable qualities that virtually any human being can see or experience making it easier to understand what all this discussion of qi movement is really getting at.
The Peak of Yin
Yin is one side of the Yin Yang movement that is represented by various related qualities: Darkness, moisture, cool and cold temperatures, substance, form, heaviness, history, blood, ancestry, rumination, nostalgia. Yin is the definition of substance and it transcends the boundaries of what we think of us the world around us and connects all the substantive material of the universe. Yin qi is profoundly complex and because of that depth, it is intrinsically mysterious. Even if you could stare at it endlessly, analyze it and take it apart, Yin qi would always seem entirely familiar and simultaneously out-of-reach. Yin and Yang both ebb and flow at various times in the year and Winter Solstice is the time when the Yin qi has gathered and matured to fullest self. It is now a powerful feminine force that is both nurturing and demanding.
Winter Solstice marks the longest night and shortest day of the year. In many parts of the world the temperatures are cold and the ground is covered in snow. Even if the weather does not make it as easy to see the strength of Yin where you live, rest assured that the forces at work in our environment are much more potent than the temperature of the air or soil. Even in warm or tropical climates, the qi of the Winter is more retrospective and reserved, demanding that we eat differently, think differently and conduct ourselves differently than we do in the Summer.
Your Food Should Be Warm and Slow-Cooked
Because there is less Yang Qi available in the Winter generally, but especially around Solstice, your meals should be prepared in a way that deeply extracts their stored flavors and natures. Soups, braises, slow-roasts, and simmering are all great ways to use cooking to dig into what is hidden deep, making it available to nourish your body. Season your meats and vegetables with mild, warm spices like cumin, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Add some ginger and garlic to your sautee bases or in with your roasted vegetables. Take advantage of the squashes still stored from the end of the summer like Delicata, Kabocha, and Acorn. Drink a slightly salty broth with your meals or make a whole soup several times per week. This moisture helps to keep your digestion running smoothly. Avoid overeating as much as you can. No raw foods, smoothies, or salads this time of year.
Your Conduct Is Restrained
The enormity of Yin at the time of Solstice permeates our environs. People feel nostalgic or homesick, we yearn for connections with our friends and families, we are more oriented to naps and lazy days. These feels and inclinations are right and appropriate at this time of year. Yin gives us the opportunity to nourish ourselves from its depths — the same place that our lineage and memory come from. Even emotions that our Western culture categorizes as negative ones like sadness and regret are appropriate this time of year. Yin in its fullness makes it easier for us to reflect on the past and to glean wisdom from our actions both good and bad.
Significantly, the time around Winter Solstice is not the time of the year to start new projects, nor the time of the year to increase your marathon training regimen. It is a time for soft and mild activity that does not cause a person to sweat, for stretching and breathing. It is a time to imagine the possibilities for the coming year and to slowly organize your thoughts and goals. It is not time to plan exactly, just the time to wonder and hope and imagine. Let your mind be carried into the myriad variations of your life, your family, and your work.
Treating every month of the year as if it were July is like driving your car with your foot pressed hard on the gas. You can do it, but your fuel will not last and in many contexts, your driving will be dangerous. You can keep doing everything you do in the summer all through the winter but it costs more. You will require your diminished yang qi to rouse itself from its hibernation and to flare bright and strong for you to get things done the way you want. It will respond to your call but for how long and to what degree? Are you always fighting fatigue, drinking cups of coffee or cans of redbull? Is your hair thinner than you’d like? Your metabolism slower? your bowels less reliable? These and many more can all be signs of your yang qi being overextended and your body’s lack of yin nourishment. If we do what we’ve always done, we will get what we’ve always got. Can you begin to reorganize your life to allow for more replenishment? For more introspection? How can you take steps to ease the demands you place on your body? It can start with something as small as drinking tea while starting out your front window, thinking about the last time you spent with nothing on your mind.