I returned to New England in 2015, after 24 years living in other parts of the country and the world. Aside from the occasional summer at my parents’ place (those ended in 1995) and visits for holidays and vacation, I was pretty removed from the weather back home. I’d hear about blizzards, though generally only when it got really rough (New Hampshire folks don’t complain much, except when talking about people who are not from New Hampshire. Then we complain a lot). I did not expect that within a year of the move I would be overwhelmed by pervasive signs of changes that had taken place since my childhood. While having the sun set at 4:30 in the afternoon in December felt strangely right and soothing (my family has yet to adopt this sense), temperatures seemed all wrong, the timing and amount of precipitation was confusing, and the plants, especially the trees, around me were behaving in odd ways, such as dropping green leaves very late in the year.

Part of my work is on climate change, albeit usually in places like sub-Saharan Africa, so I was not at all surprised to find that things might have changed in my absence. Indeed, my first reaction to this experience was to assume that being gone for more than half of my life created a significant experiential gap. I hadn’t lived through year upon year of subtle changes for more than two decades, perhaps preventing me from being the proverbial frog in the simmering pot. At the same time, if there is one thing that more than two decades of work on livelihoods and the environment has taught me, it is that I should not fully trust human perceptions of the environment. So I started playing with data. The results startled me, and provoked me to do something I rarely do: write about where I live, and what is happening to it.

As subsequent posts will show, my overwhelming sense that something had changed significantly was right. What I did not expect was how the data would support the pervasive and substantial character of those changes. One of the most important stories about climate change is the rate of change: while the climate has changed in the past, these changes tended to operate on geologic timescales far outside the experience of most organisms. Much has been made of current rates of change, and how they have shifted from geologic to human timescales, a rate of change that far exceeds the ability of many species of plant and animal to adapt to the new conditions. What most strikes me about the data, and the ways in which it weaves through my experience of the world, is that the changes I see are now operating not at a human timescale, but at a generational timescale – that is, so fast that they are clearly perceptible over less than 25 years, as opposed to a 75- or 100-year timescale. Put another way, while I was largely born into the same environment as my mother and father, my children were born into a different environment than me. I was oddly unprepared for that fact, and I am still not sure what it means to me as a parent or the work I do professionally.

In upcoming posts, I will walk you through these changes and their manifestations, drawing on data but writing about it from my perspective. I’m not sure where this will take me, but that’s fine: I generally write to process things, and now you, dear reader, get to come along for the ride.