When I’m headed out the door at daybreak, weather permitting, I tell my husband I’m leaving to be athletic. He understands this to mean I’m going out for exercise—a run, a brisk walk—along a path in the woods near my home. But sometimes my rendezvous with the natural world has nothing to do with the freedom to move my body through open space, and everything to do with connecting to it.

It may seem cliché to say you’re going outside to “connect” with nature. It calls for an eyeroll and music from the sixties, where peace and love are all you really need. I even used a version of this idea for my memoir’s subtitle, “discovering connections and finding home.”

On a recent morning walk, my awareness was heightened. I realized I had missed the peak weekend for fall, flashing her seasonal glory. (I was out of town.) Shiny leaves in puddles covered the footpath from recent rains, adding a bit of slipperiness to my steps. A depth to the woods was apparent. More trees had shed their summer wear than not and what remained fluttering in breezes was a pallet more yellow and brown than burgundy and gold.

My walk among the fauna was not sufficient to claim my connection with nature.

So what does “connecting” really mean?

Our senses are underrated. We need the input of each sense to provide different information. When combined, our brain interprets them to tell us what is happening in our world. Our connected senses perceive our environment, so we know how to interact with it. They help with everyday tasks and are needed for tasting a meal or listening to music. Each sense provides vital functions. They are connected to our emotions and evoke memories affecting how we feel.

Consider this from Roger Deakin, author of Wildwood: A journey Through Trees,

“Once inside a wood, you walk on something very much like the seabed, looking up at the canopy of leaves as if it were the surface of the water, filtering the descending shafts of light and dappling everything.”

I love this imagery as it pulls in the senses. You witness the dappling light, perhaps experience a delicate salty taste, and you may hear a swoosh of waves. It is a journey of sensory experience.

Think of the last time you took a walk among trees, or sauntered through a garden, or traversed a dusty path of hill. You may have exercised your body, but you also have worked your senses.

The Visuals: On your next venture out, take in the surrounding sights. Start from the top and work your way to the ground. Look at the clouds and find the sun. Is there light or absence of it? How do the trees look as the sun appears to sit on their canopies? Observe colors and lighting. There is a Japanese term, “Komorebi.” Though there is no English translation, it roughly means the scattered light that filters through when sunlight shines through trees. It is especially noticeable when the sun is low, with the effects of mist or fog. In winter months, notice a sky so blue and a sun so low.

Sound. You may think how quiet it is while in the woods, but really, it’s not. Home in on a bird’s song, ducks quacking or geese honking. Be attentive to the sounds made in their movement. The whirring of wind, the rustling of leaves. Crackling of weak branches, deer hooves clicking on asphalt, hum of traffic in the background. Snow falling tenderly.

Smell. Depending on the season, there’s a wide range that comes to this sense. Fresh cut grass in spring and summer. Peppery and sweet wildflowers in late summer and early fall. Decaying leaves and mud from rain-soaked earth in late fall.

Touch. Reach out. Touch the foliage and wild grasses. Does it feel soft or brittle? How your open palms tickle when running them over the tips of frozen prairie grasses. And don’t forget to touch the deep crevices of an oak’s sharp body, or the soft tender curls from the peeling bark of a birch.

Taste. Thanks to our sense of smell, catching the fragrance of wild onions, or sage, or pine, or the salt in the air, does your mouth respond?

When we learn from our senses, we open ourselves, relying on the reciprocity our natural world offers. In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer says, “Paying attention is a form of reciprocity with the living world, receiving the gifts with open eyes and open heart.”

True connections run deeper. They reveal themselves when that feeling of awe, or wonder, or delight hits you. It’s a shake-of-the-head moment when you think about how you were in the right place at the right time. We couldn’t get to that place without learning about ourselves and our environment through our senses.

“Our lives are about small moments—or small moments that are actually big moments,” writes author Grant Faulkner in his book The Art of Brevity, Crafting the Very Short Story.

“The art of brevity. The art of excision. The art of compression. The art of omission. The art of spaces and gaps and breaths. The art of less.”

I often write about the natural world as it it my place to learn, a classroom of sensory experience where I can find clarity and understanding and a place to be. And within my writing, I discover the small moments of reverence through sensory experience, those moments of genuine connection.

 “Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.” -Henry David Thoreau