Lately I haven’t been spending as much time outdoors as I should. The indoor habit probably traces back to the summer, because I don’t tolerate heat well, and laziness has perpetuated it through the balmy days of fall, which has always been one of my favorite seasons.

So I surprised myself when, one recent Saturday morning, I felt like getting out of the house. At breakfast I found myself sitting opposite the leader of fortnightly trail walks on the Medford campus. Every time she prepares to go, she wonders out loud whether anyone will show up.

“What’s the minimum turnout you need to do this walk?” I asked.

“One,” she answered. “Do you want to come?” I hadn’t been going on those walks, so my affirmative answer must have come as a surprise to her too.

Four more showed up, so the six of us set forth, single file, follow-the-leader. Conversation was sporadic; silence reigned. I had no desire to talk, being satisfied to commune with myself. I don’t know what I expected, but I soon lost myself in my surroundings. Above and beside me were almost-bare trees of various kinds. My co-walkers identified them, but their identities meant nothing to me. Their size, structure, and shape were what intrigued me. On the ground were leaves, hundreds of thousands of them, in their characteristic shapes by which I should have been able, but didn’t care, to tell what kind of trees had dropped them. What caught my eye were their colors, from green through yellow, orange, red, to brown, and the very fact of their different shapes. They all did the same thing during their lifetimes, yet they carefully guarded their differences, to be shared only with their unbornsiblings.

But differences aside, these leaves welcomed us hikers in unison, crunching softly, uncomplaining, under our feet and softening our impact.

No wildlife made any appearance. Even birds were silent. So I was reduced to imagining the scurry of squirrels and the song of birds I couldn’t come close to identifying even as I marveled at their exuberance.

Notably absent from my thoughts were the details of tasks I must accomplish, relationships I might have damaged by neglect, doubts about my competence at whatever I had volunteered to do, anxiety about my looks, anxiety about my weight, anxiety about my health, anxiety about my age, anxiety about the future of the planet, anxiety about not doing what’s expected of me, anxiety about everything.

For about an hour I was at peace.

For about an hour I had to remind myself that I am a nonbeliever.

I wouldn’t have had that experience if I were constantly immersed in nature. Like other wonderful sensations, too much exposure dulls their wonder.

So I’ll stay indoors most of the time and venture forth occasionally for that special treat.