When I stepped into the first breakout session at the writers’ colloquium last weekend, I felt a familiar sensation. Let’s call it the “stomach-gasp.” It wasn’t audible, but visceral, occurring somewhere in the gut, near the pit of my stomach.

As if sucked back in time to Ballantine Hall on the campus of Indiana University, I realized I was back in a creative writing workshop. I was about to experience a poetry workshop identical in format to the classes I signed up for decades earlier to earn my B.A. in English. Those classes weren’t easy for me emotionally. I always felt intimidated.

The leader of this breakout session, Maurice Manning, teaches poetry at Indiana University. That’s why I knew that the biggest difference between this and my classes would be that I was not in Ballantine Hall. What was the same–what traversed time and space–were all of the insecurities that plagued me then and apparently still plague me today.

Manning passed out a packet of poetry, titling the discussion “Writing and Religious Inquiry.” The poems to consider included John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 14, George Herbert’s Sin, Emily Dickinson’s Poem 314, Gerard Manley Hopkins’ God’s Grandeur, James Wright’s A Blessing, Alan Dugan’s Prayer, Yusef Komunyakaa’s Thanks, and Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day.

I actually referenced The Summer Day in a recent post here on the blog, so when I flipped through and spotted it in his packet, I felt particularly literary-minded–for a few seconds. My pleasure was short-lived, because it turned out that I had nothing to offer the conversation. I intellectually seized up during the class. Brain-freeze, without the Dairy Queen Mr. Misty.

He would read a poem and ask us to respond. Several people contributed their ideas and reactions. I sat, as I did years ago, staring at the text. It takes me a while to evaluate and arrive at any kind of analysis. I’m slow of mind, I suppose. I didn’t say one word.

After spending time having us consider each poem, Manning turned to the Questions and Exercises he designed around these poems. We had little time left before lunch, so he chose one assignment. Some of the poems contained bold statements, prayers, and scenarios that might be considered by some to be downright outrageous. So Manning said this:

“What is the most outlandish thing you could say to God? Write a poem based on the most outlandish thing you could say to God, that starts with the phrase ‘….and another thing.’”

People chuckled, squirmed, considered the assignment with various head tilts and pencil tapping, and then started scribbling.

I, on the other hand, stared at my sheet of paper.

I doodled.

I stared some more.

After the familiar sinking feeling eased up a bit, I did start thinking about it. It was to be a prayer. What would be outlandish to God? What would be outlandish for me to say to Him? Before I could get going on an interesting phrase or two, my mind tripped up and tangled itself in a string of unnecessary thoughts. I should have just written from the moment. I just couldn’t seem to produce on the spot, though clearly everybody else could.

I doodled some more. I slowly wrote “…..and another thing!” but nothing followed.

Instead of just going with the intent of the assignment, instead of scratching out something with energy and passion, I starting thinking that nothing is outlandish to an all-knowing God. There’s nothing I can say to Him that would be outlandish…to Him.

Instead, I started thinking about the fact that the very act of prayer seems outlandish not to God, but to those who don’t believe in a God at all. No prayer is outlandish to God. It’s only outlandish from the human perspective–to one who doesn’t believe at all, prayer is an outlandish act. To most of the world, I would seem a fool or clown for opening my mind, mouth, and my very soul to a God who can’t be seen or heard. I suppose God Himself is the outlandish One to those who don’t believe. Jesus is particularly outlandish; the message of the cross is foolishness to the world.

And in that jumble of ideas and words, all specificity which makes for a powerful poem was lost.

Time was up, and Manning invited us to go around the room and share what we had written. Oh, the dread. I hated that part of every writing workshop. My heart would pound so loudly I was sure I was shaking the table.

“I thought we could go around and hear what you’ve written,” he proposed. “But you don’t have to share.”

One by one, people read their poems–lively, vibrant stories, descriptions, and confessions. I felt just as I did back in college: impressed with the talent in the room, and very small by comparison; insecure, inadequate, unskilled, slow-witted, and shy.

And I did something so wimpy that I can’t believe I did it.

I passed.

Every single person in that room shared their writing, except me. When the person to my left finished, Manning turned to me and nodded.

I bit my lower lip in an effort to look sort of sheepish and pointed to the lady next to me.

Manning said, “Oh! You’re passing–okay. Well, that’s fine.” I appreciated his tone. He didn’t make me feel bad or make a big to-do. He just smiled reassuringly and nodded to the lady to my right.

“Oh!” she said, surprised. “You’re passing. Oh, okay.”

I stared at my page as she read her poem. I was embarrassed. You’d think after xx years, I’d be more confident and bold.

I guess not.

I’m looking at my page now. It’s just a tight, tiny little paragraph of confusion. A mess of words with nothing solid. No story to give it a form, no metaphor to strengthen it.

Perhaps I think too much. Or, perhaps I don’t think enough. I like to think I just need a little more time.

Whatever the case may be, I do believe I lost an opportunity. There I was in a group of writers who were digging deep and putting themselves out there, sharing spontaneous, gut-level reactions to the call to say something outrageous to God.

And I stayed silent. The pit of my stomach ruled me, inhibited me, rendered me speechless.

Manning’s workshop was wonderfully designed–the poems and poets he chose gave each writer in the room permission to be free and write boldly when he gave the assignment.

I’ve given you links to all the poems but one (I couldn’t find a link to the Dugan poem). And I’ll repeat his assignment here.

Perhaps you can avoid the intimidation and fear that I felt and write something with life and energy like the others in that workshop?

Here’s the assignment:

“What is the most outlandish thing you could say to God? Write a poem that includes the phrase ‘and another thing.’”

If you want to share, feel free to paste it into the comments.

But of course, you don’t have to share. You are, with me, always free to pass.

And I won’t sound surprised if you do. Not a bit.