New York City weather this winter has been odd:  unseasonably warm for most of the winter, with one huge snow storm in the middle and a few arctic blasts here and there.  And now, before we even have any true signs of spring, we’ve got summer temperatures: 76 in Central Park yesterday, and a record-breaking 81 degrees at Newark airport.

Is all this craziness a sure sign of climate change and global warming? Maybe.  Probably.  Is that why it bothers me so much? I don’t think so.

I’m a northern girl at heart.  Other than 14 months living in DC, New York City is the southern-most place I’ve ever lived.  Born in upstate New York (real upstate: north of Albany) and raised in the mountains of Vermont, my world view developed in a setting with strong, distinct seasons. After college, I moved to Michigan, where winters were even snowier, and then to Siberia, Russia, where winters were colder, darker, and longer than I had even imagined possible.  And I loved it.  I was awed and delighted by how, on a clear sunny day when the temperature drops below negative 30 how, the air literally sparkles, because all the moisture in the atmosphere freezes and turns to ice crystals reflecting the bright mid day light.  I learned that the farther north you go, the more magical summer is, with long lazy days and warm languorous evenings, enriched by night hawks and crickets and katydids.  I love spring as a time of slow reawakening: tree buds busting and slowly developing into full grown leaves over the course of many weeks; different species of birds serenading each week as the weather gradually warms and the various migrants make their way back from warmer climes.

Without the stability and constancy of distinct seasons, I start to loose a bit of my sense of self.  A 70 degree day in early March – when the trees are still grey and nude and the ground is still brown and bare – just makes me uncomfortable. It’s too soon and too out of sequence.  I saw an article in the times this morning encouraging people to going out and enjoy spring and summer activities like picnicking in Central Park, noting that a distinct benefit of the unseasonably warm weather is that the mosquitos and other insects aren’t out yet.  I guess that’s a good point, but I’d much rather picnic on the lush green grass of May and June than spread my blanket over the sparse brown stubble of March.

Maybe what I’m feeling is nostalgia… or mourning.  As someone working in the environmental field, I know the climate change predictions all too well, and I know that – even if we meet all the lofty goals for cutting emissions and storing more carbon – these weather patterns are only going to become more and more frequent.  It’s likely that the only way to continue to experience the distinct and extreme seasons that I love so much will be to migrate further and further north every few years.  Otherwise, I’ll need to find a way to regain my sense of self amidst these weird warm winters and abbreviated springs.

At least the crocuses are still the first flower to start blossom, no matter how early the spring comes.