“Mend the Clothes Before Autumn Cries” — The Urgency of the Season
There is an old Chinese proverb that every grandmother knew: *“Shí yuè yī, dào le chuān; sān yuè sān, tuō le dān”* — "On the tenth day of the tenth month, put on wadded clothes; on the third day of the third month, take off the single layers." But before you can don that padded jacket, someone has to make it. The lunar year's 6th month, which contains *Liqiu*, is traditionally called *qiūyuè*, 秋月, the Autumn Moon, but farming families called it *máng yuè*, 忙月, the Busy Moon. It was the last lull before harvest, and every day was spent readying for the cold. The women of the household — for this was almost entirely women's work — would begin by unrolling bolts of *jiàng sè*, 绛色, the deep red-brown homespun cotton that had been dyed with *sūmù*, 苏木, sappanwood, back in the spring. I remember my first *Liqiu* in a village outside Suzhou, when an 86-year-old woman named Auntie Shen showed me her hands. Streaked with indigo, cracked like dry riverbeds. "See these?" she laughed. "They never rest after today. The days are getting shorter. I have to make four new quilt covers before the *shuāngjiàng*, 霜降, frost descends." She was using a *zhī bù jī*, 织布机, a handloom made of dark *zǐ tán mù*, 紫檀木, rosewood, that had belonged to her husband's mother's mother. The rhythm of the loom on such days is a kind of heartbeat. *Shuā — dā — shuā — dā*. The reed bangs against the woven weft. The shuttle, worn smooth as a river stone, flies left to right, right to left, carrying the thread that will soon become a jacket, a pair of trousers, a *miánxié*, 棉鞋, a padded cotton shoe. In the courtyard, the *bàozhú*, 爆竹, firecrackers of the morning's *Liqiu* offering have stopped, and now the only music is this: the loom, a woman's humming, and the buzzing of the last fat flies of summer.Zongzi on Liqiu? The Feast of the “Binding Day”
Not every part of China observes *Liqiu* with weaving. In the rice-growing regions of the south — Zhejiang, Jiangxi, and Hunan — this day is known as *bǎng qiū shēn*, 绑秋身, "binding the autumn body," a term that sounds odd and has nothing to do with custom tailoring. The phrase means that the fields are "bound" to their purpose for the final stretch of growth. To give strength to this binding, families made a special meal. Here is the secret many outsiders don't know: on this day, you eat *zòngzi*, 粽子, the same pyramid-shaped glutinous rice dumplings wrapped in *ruòzhú yè*, 箬竹叶, indocalamus leaves, that are the signature of the *Duānwǔ*, 端午, Dragon Boat Festival, in June. Why? Because the root of the word *zòng* is the character for "bind," and the wrapping of the dumpling — the tightly tied string, the yanked knot — is a piece of sympathetic magic. Bind the zongzi, and you bind the rice grains on the stalk. They will grow fat and heavy, bursting their husks, just like the dumplings do when they are steamed. I recall waking up at dawn one *Liqiu* in a farmhouse near Hangzhou, in Zhejiang province, to the smell of wet leaves and steamed rice. The kitchen was steamy, the *tiě guō*, 铁锅, iron wok, bubbling. Auntie Luo was sitting on a small stool, her fingers moving too fast to follow. She showed me: she took two leaves, laid them parallel, and curled them into a cone. She packed in a handful of *nuòmǐ*, 糯米, glutinous rice, soaked overnight, mixed with a few water chestnuts and a strip of salty pork fat. Then — flick, twist, tie — it was done. She used grass twine soaked in water to make the binding, and as she pulled the knot tight, she sang a ditty:"Autumn is bound, autumn is bound. The ear of rice grows plump and round. If the binding is loose, the field is bare; if the binding is tight, the barn will tear — with grain." — Traditional Hangzhou folksong, *Bǎng Qiū Shēn*The water chestnuts, *mǎtí*, 马蹄, "horse's hoofs," are not incidental. They give a cool, crunchy counterpoint to the sticky rice, a texture that speaks of the pond, and of the shift from the scorching *Dàshǔ*, 大暑, Great Heat, of days past. To eat them on this day, with the steam rolling off the pot and a cold *lǜdòu tāng*, 绿豆汤, mung bean soup, beside you, is to taste the entirely physical relief of the season turning.
Why Does “Wearing New Clothes” on This Day Prevent Autumn's Ills?
The question of why people dress so deliberately on *Liqiu* is linked, not to vanity, but to a powerful concept known as *qiūjì yǎngfú*, 秋意养服, "autumn intention, nourished clothing." It sounds poetic, but it is practical. In traditional Chinese thought, the body's protective energy, the *wèi qì*, 卫气, guards the surface of the skin like a garrison. During the summer, the pores are open, the *wèi qì* is scattered outward, and one sweats freely to release heat. When *Liqiu* arrives, the first coolness indicates that the body must now close its gates and turn energy inward to build warmth for the winter. If you are still wearing the thin, breathable *shā yī*, 纱衣, gauze clothes of summer, your pores stay open, the coolness slips in, and you fall prey to *qiū shā*, 秋杀, the "autumn killing" — the first wave of coughs and fevers that come with the change. So the sartorial ritual is a form of protection. Children, who are most vulnerable, are the focus of the tradition. In the countryside of Shandong, I once watched a mother lay out a new set of clothes for her son on *Liqiu* morning — a jacket of *qīng bù*, 青布, dark blue cotton, with *pánkòu*, 盘扣, the intricate fabric knots that serve as buttons. She told me there was another taboo to be careful of on this day: *“Pengzu says: do not dress formally, or you will not return home.”* This is an obscure but fascinating almanac taboo, related to the mythical ancestor *Péngzǔ*, 彭祖, who warned against conspicuous display on high-humidity days. Her answer was to dress her son just slightly too big for him. "The clothes are a year too large," she said. "He wears his autumn clothes until the next *Liqiu*. He will grow into them, and the growth is the point. He grows into the season." It is a lovely, physical metaphor for the cyclical nature of the lunar calendar — the fit becomes true only as the year comes around again.Household Prep: The Day of Unbinding and Re-binding
The household traditions that surround *Liqiu* center on the idea of binding order and unbinding chaos. Here are the classic tasks performed on this day, a checklist that defines the *qiū zhěng*, 秋整, "autumn rearrangement," of the home: - **Removing the *liáng xí*, 凉席, the summer sleeping mat.** You roll it up tightly and tie it with a red string*.* This "binds" the summer heat. The mat is not washed yet; it is stored as-is, because to wash away its accumulated sweat would be to wash away the protective heat of the season. - **Hanging the *qiū yī*, 秋衣, autumn clothes to air.** This is called *shài qiū*, 晒秋, "drying autumn." Every piece of winter clothing is taken out, shaken, and hung on a bamboo pole in the sun. The visual of this — thousands of poles laden with dark blue jackets, red scarves, and patchwork quilts across a village courtyard — is one of the most moving sights in rural China. - **Weighing the family.** *Chēng rén*, 称人, "weighing people," is a *Liqiu* task. The whole family weighs themselves. According to tradition, if you weigh yourself on *Liqiu* and then again on *Dōngzhì*, 冬至, winter solstice, you can gauge exactly how much "autumn fat" you have gained to survive the cold season. In the Chinese zodiac, this day's *Tiān yī*, 天医, Heavenly Grace, and *Yùtáng*, 玉堂, Jade Hall, spirits are active, meaning the day is historically good for "Setting Up Looms" and "Tailoring," as noted in the almanac. That is why the day officer is listed as "Hold" — you are holding the thread, holding the stitch, holding the season in your hands.“Chuānqiū” — The Small Sip of Coolness, and a Poem for the Rooftop
Before modernity brought air conditioners, the most anticipated moment of *Liqiu* was *tǐng fēng*, 挺风, "standing in the wind." After dinner, the whole family would climb to the flat rooftop or sit on the *mén kǎn*, 门槛, the high wooden threshold of the front door, to feel for the first breeze that carried no swamp-dampness. A scholar in the Song dynasty, *chén jī*, 陈耆, wrote a poem describing this exact sensation, *“Lìqiū Shì Kàn”* (*Standing Autumn: A Window View*):"一枕新凉，一窗新梦，一庭梧叶落初惊。小立风前，数行雁字斜横。" "One pillow of new coolness, one window of new dreams, a courtyard of wutong leaves that fall, causing first surprise. I stand small before the wind, and count the slanting lines of wild geese." — Chen Ji, Song Dynasty, *Lìqiū Shì Kàn*That image — standing in the night air, listening for geese that have not yet flown, feeling the *wútóng*, 梧桐, parasol tree leaves begin their dry rustle — is the emotional core of the entire tradition. The loom’s cloth, the binding of the *zongzi*, the washing of the mats; they are all preparations for the truth that autumn is a receding of life, a pulling inward, a time to wear a layer of homespun against the coming dark. Today, you rarely see handlooms in Suzhou. But the tradition lives on in small ways. The shops on *Pí Shì Jiē*, 皮市街, Leather Market Street, sell new *pijuàn*, 皮卷, rolled leather winter hats in early August. The houses that still have *zào kēng*, 灶坑, the old kitchen god stoves, are scrubbed clean on this day. As I walked back to my apartment that evening, the steam from a hundred pots of *zongzi* rolling out over the old city walls, a neighbor handed me one, still hot through the leaf. I unwrapped it. The rice was pale, soaked through with the fat of the pork, studded with the crunchy *mǎtí*. It tasted of cool ponds and river reeds, of a season begging to be held and bound tight. Check the Wealth God direction for today’s feng shui, or use the Lucky Day Finder to plan for the autumn to come. But more than that — go outside this evening. Stand on your threshold. See if the wind has changed. The geese might not be visible yet, but their call is already written in the coolness of the air. The year is turning, and the old looms of *Liqiu* are humming.
This article is based on traditional Chinese calendrical systems and historical texts, provided for cultural learning and reference purposes only.