Needles In Haystacks
a poem about seeking
I am back from a wonderful trip to Florida. 10 full days of relaxation and creativity. I wrote so much I had to buy a new notebook. I’ll be sharing many of these words in the coming weeks and months. But for today, I offer a new poem. Prompted by something a wise mentor and friend said over lunch. And in celebration of a church community that continues to influence my seeking.
Take a read and/or a listen. And then I invite you to remember something you’ve lost. Did you search for it? What did you learn or find in your seeking?
Curiously, Rebecca
Needles In Haystacks ©Rebecca Wilson, May 2026
did you read about that guy who literally tried to find a needle in a haystack an Italian artist in a museum in Paris given 24 hours to complete the task long mesmerized by this idiom how difficult it is to find something we’ve lost that’s been taken from us how exhausting and hopeless the search can feel all last week digging at the beach for shark teeth sifting through fistfuls of mud and shells can’t remember when I last felt so relaxed and free salty waves washing over me hot sun beaming down on me the faith I released no longer haunting me shame no longer sinking me new dreams bubbling up in me a gentle rhythm rocking me remembering the ways this gulfside town welcomed me when I was chasing down that part of me buried by waters that once baptized me the little church that found me whose parking lot held me those Sunday mornings I couldn’t get out of the car whose doors flung wide the first time I finally wandered in prayers that fell like gentle rain healing delivered cool like morning shade communion placed softly on my heart sweetly on my tongue a rainbow hung over the altar covering me all the way home guiding me to return again and again the eagle that gracefully circled the grounds was I the needle adrift or reclaimed invisible or waiting to be seen are haystacks made as obstacles or art are we searching for each other or simply seeking a god whose love cannot be hidden a world where no one is left to drown alone in the end all he needed was 18 hours I wonder what he did with those extra 6 did the needle prick him when he found it
If you enjoyed this poem, I have a whole book of poetry you want to get your hands on. Order signed copies of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal here.
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I love the turnaround, we are the needle in the haystack. . . lovely to read this this morning