I moved to the UK 20 years ago. In my third month here, I had surgery. When I woke up, a nurse offered me tea. She asked if I wanted milk and sugar. I said, “Just tea.”

Beginning a new life in a country I had never been to was not easy. Raising children in a different culture was challenging. Trying to fit into the British working culture, I never quite succeeded.

Along the way, I met women from many cultures. I noticed something interesting: non-English speaking women seemed to carry either bitterness or sweetness. But most English women carried something else — bittersweet, just like their tea with milk, or their milk chocolate. I admire that. It is a skill worth learning.

This is why I am starting this workshop: not only to practice the skill of turning bitterness into bittersweet, but also to go further — to turn bitterness into sweetness, a sweetness we can carry with us, all the way to the later years of our lives.

Bitterness is sharp.

Bittersweet tastes like tea with milk,

or mild chocolate.

Sweetness carries us,

softly, into old age.

Why Japanese waka

When I guide people in my Silent Script workshops, I ask them not to write for others, but to write for themselves. The poem is not a performance but a mirror — a quiet way of seeing one’s inner weather. For this purpose, I have chosen Japanese waka as the poetic form, even though my mother tongue is Chinese.

The choice might seem unusual at first. Classical Chinese poetry is one of the richest traditions in the world, a treasury of imagery, rhythm, and philosophy. But it carries with it a certain gravity. Every character is dense with history, layered with Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist resonance. A four-line Tang poem feels like stone carved by centuries — authoritative, solemn, collective. To read or write such a poem is to step into the weight of dynasty and memory. For many participants, especially those not trained in this tradition, it can feel more like an examination than an invitation.

Japanese waka, by contrast, offers lightness and intimacy. Its five lines (5–7–5–7–7) are like a sigh or a breath. The language of waka often uses Yamato words — soft, everyday syllables close to the body and heart — rather than the lofty Sino-Japanese register. The focus is not on empire or history, but on personal moments: blossoms in spring, dew at dawn, a fleeting glance, the ache of longing.

This difference matters for the kind of reflection I hope to foster. Many people who come to my workshops — older women, isolated individuals, those carrying quiet burdens — do not need the heaviness of stone. They need the lightness of breath. Waka lets them touch their feelings gently, without the fear of being judged or the pressure of cultural weight.

There is also a cultural resonance here. English, like Japanese, has a dual register: plain Germanic words for intimacy, Latin words for abstraction. My workshop participants can sense this shift even in their own language. Waka, with its natural, intimate tone, is easier to translate across cultures into English reflection than classical Chinese verse would be.

In the end, the choice of waka is not about rejecting my heritage. It is about choosing the right vessel for the moment. Chinese poetry is a river with mountains behind it; waka is a stream that carries a single leaf. Both are beautiful, but in my workshops, where the goal is to let people see themselves quietly, it is the stream that serves better than the mountain.