On these cold, dark mornings, I’m deeply grateful for the comfort of warmth after I awaken and somehow find the courage to leave my bed — the gentle glow of a heater, a soft shawl, perhaps a sleepy cat in my lap, the reassurance of a hot drink. My morning begins to emerge from the nighttime chill.

And I look forward to the spring, with its earlier light, the songs of the dawn chorus lifting through the dissipating mist. Whatever the season, in these early hours the island is waking again, carrying on with the modest, crucial work of being alive.

I find there to be great healing in attuning to those rhythms. They remind me that, whatever happens later in the day, or in the wider world, we still have this precious place — this astonishing congregation of rock, forest, sea, and people; this ever‑changing web of neighbors, visitors and friends. Like the birds who arrive to build shared nests in the spring, we naturally return to greeting one another with care, honoring our mutual presence. To me, that’s the heart of what it means to call this island home.

Like these late‑afternoon autumn nights, the national and global scenes have been darkening. The noise is strident, the unhappiness contagious. It makes me want to pull back, to hide in the safety of our home.

Even in our own little slice of the world — in our Community Council, in years past — meetings that should have expressed warmth and care for the island and for each other sometimes turned darker. Words became weapons, trust frayed, and many of us decided to keep our distance.

But since V‑MCC councils resumed in July, something has shifted, like the seasons — not suddenly, yet undeniably. People are showing up again and speaking with mutual respect, even warmth. We listen to each other. We laugh from time to time. Sometimes there’s a sweetness in the room that feels like balm, a subtle glow. It’s as if we’re remembering together that it’s more basic to be friends and neighbors than to be antagonistic debaters.

That modest but fundamental change matters. In a time when national politics so often feels like a field of contention and fear, rediscovering trust at the local level is essential. Here, in daily interactions, we are free to practice the kind of democracy that still feels like community: ordinary people giving one another attention, respect and patience.

Our island has always had a gift for that. We’re small enough to notice each other’s lives — who needs a hand, who’s grieving, who’s quietly doing the right thing when nobody’s watching. That attentiveness is how communities stay human when the larger world forgets how. It’s the foundation of our civic life.

This is because local democracy continues well beyond public meetings. It thrives in the shared work of tending gardens, mentoring kids, restoring streams, keeping an eye on a neighbor’s dog. These ordinary acts are quietly radical now; they keep faith in one another alive when so much else seems to be unraveling.

I see it at the farmers’ market when neighbors pause to check in, share food, or lend a hand with a project too big for one person. I feel it whenever we wrestle with hard questions yet still manage to stay present, listen and care. Humble as it seems, this is a kind of mutual protection — a sanctuary, a refugium of civic sanity.

A shelter doesn’t stop the storm — it gives us a place to keep safe while it passes over. That’s what this island, and its people, can be if we let it: not an escape from the wider world but a resilient corner of it, where recognition and care empower and preserve our shared lives.

We can’t stop the storms; they have their necessity. But we can keep protecting this sturdy shelter of civic sanity — a living refugium of good company and ordinary grace. If we steward it through both rough weather and fair, then when others are ready to live in authentic community again, they’ll discover that here, on this small, beloved island in the Salish Sea, something steady and good not only endured but flourished.

JC Graham has lived on Vashon Island since the turn of the century. JC can be reached through Permessos Press at permessos@proton.me and at President.v-mcc@proton.me.