Biggest, deepest, highest, wildest. As a society, we are obsessed with superlatives. It is difficult not to be swept up in the mindset of the magnificent. Often, as I clear the Bayfield break wall I throttle up and point the bow of the Little Dipper towards some vision of grandeur -- a deep cave, a remote stretch of beach, the seven-shades of blue horizons off the far islands, I feel its pull too. There is an allure to it. And, I think, a danger.
The danger is not physical, although there is always that too of course. Superlatives are, by definition, the extremes. But I am thinking of the danger of always looking for the next big thing and the risk that brings with it of missing the next little thing -- a single wave shot through with sun just as it breaks against a nameless beach, an eagle feather spiraling into the abyss of deep water, an almost achingly beautiful and intimate curl of birchbark. You come looking for a cave and end up marveling at the coloring of a cliff wall, or on your belly eye level with shoreline plants bejeweled in the season's first dew.
It takes a different mindset to see the little things. You have to slow down, scale things back, set illusions of grandeur aside. When you do, superlatives fade like morning mist. What remains are little things and they can be, well, big too.
— Jeff Rennicke (all photography by the author unless otherwise noted)
These Apostle Islands postcards every Sunday are an offshoot of the “Little Dipper” blog. Paid subscribers to the blog also receive an original, full-length illustrated essay delivered right to their inbox every Wednesday. Subscribe. Come along for the ride aboard the “Little Dipper.”
What joy do you find in little things? Send me a message below and let me know.
This one feels like a gentle hug in this overly rushing world. Thanks, Jeff!