Back in 1955 local newspapers in California and Nebraska introduced a new idiom into the English language: hump day. It referred to Wednesday (the middle of the work week), which we are led to picture as the hump of a camel we’ve worked hard to “get over,” making the rest of the week easier to handle and a cause for celebration that fosters a sense of camaraderie on the job.

Now there is a larger “hump day” coming in March. It will arrive on Friday, March 20, and will be observed by everyone on the planet who can see the sun and keeps track of when and where it rises and sets. The day’s official name is the vernal (a.k.a. spring) equinox—that moment in time when the sun at noon appears directly above the equator rather than to its south or north. All of us who live in the Northern Hemisphere will notice that the daylight hours will get longer and the great ball of starshine will make its appearance and retreat farther north on the horizon until the longest day of the year (June 21, or the summer solstice).

After getting over the celestial “hump,” we will be able to enjoy increasing light by which to see and warming temperatures by which to feel. Metaphorically, using that lengthening light to view life on our two sister island homes (Sanibel and Captiva), I’d like to draw attention to the human warmth that such sun-drenched scenes reveal, which both locals and visitors are fortunate to share.

First, the islands are a blessed and favored place because of the “good nature” with which they are surrounded and gracefully embraced—most of the time. When nature gets rough, the camaraderie of “fellow campers” and the reassurance of first responders gets us through the hard times. Meanwhile, there are few communities that plan, finance, and prepare for resiliency more than these two. And when the healthy environment is threatened by human behavior (from nearby, up river, or out at sea), the residents band together to clean up, lift, lobby, and legislate to protect and preserve.

Second, the organizations on both sides of the Blind Pass bridge connecting the two islands are loaded with volunteers, willing and able. The City of Sanibel functions as a New England town-meeting operation: Elected officials run as political nonpartisans, serve without pay, and encourage open, transparent deliberations. The scores of volunteers on city committees and nonprofit boards have actual authority to carry out their work, and they welcome observers and journalists.

Captiva, though formally subject to the oversight of the Lee County Commissioners, nevertheless has long-standing and active citizen participation in all matters affecting the quality of life on their island. When there are differences of opinion in both communities, the majority of individuals seem to have learned the advice given by Thomas Jefferson to his daughter when she was upset by neighborhood arguments: All we can do is make the best of our friends. Love and cherish what is good in them, and keep out of the way of what is bad; but no more think of rejecting them for it than throwing away a piece of music for a flat passage or two.

Third, almost as an echo of the marvelous ethics of Biblical Judaism, on both islands there is a stated and practiced tradition of understanding the nonresident (whether visitor, day worker, or returning member of a congregation, service club, etc.) to be equal in value to the “native” and treated with equal dignity. I am grateful that such openness to “one who thinks otherwise” is an expression of our American tradition. Consider these two bits of wisdom: I’ve always felt that a person’s intelligence is directly reflected by the number of conflicting points of view he can entertain simultaneously on the same topic (Abigail Adams, a “founding mother”); and If we are of one heart we can survive being of two minds (William Sloane Coffin, clergyman and chaplain).