Its 15 degrees out at 7:56 A.M. and frost glints off the surfaces of my silver-plated backyard. I am sitting outside on my deck wearing two down jackets, down pants, down booties, and a thick hat as the winter sun wakes up in the eastern sky. Its an ordinary weekday, and my laptop sits in front of me as I tap away at emails. I have a desk indoors, but today I am choosing not to use it.

　　Even though Im not perfectly warm, it lifts my mood to be outside. I can hear the community of songbirds holding their morning conferences, a barking dog, a chuckling hen, and a distant train whistle. Geese flap overhead on their morning commute. In Durango, Colorado, where I live, urbanity and the natural world mix.

　　On one hand, it feels a little crazy to be out here, tippity-tapping away on my laptop, sipping tea, sticking my hands in my pockets, listening, watching the morning shadows shorten. But on the other hand, nothing feels more natural than being under the actual sky, not a ceiling, and feeling actual fresh air, not the stuffy indoor canned variety.

　　My perhaps unusual habits were part of an experiment. This winter, for a month, every workday, I vowed to work outside for at least part of the day, no matter the conditions. From late May to early October, I work outside a lot, even though I have a desk job. I set up a desk on a north-facing side of my house and work in the shade, surrounded by my yards untidy greenery and all the frittering insects. Occasionally I bike to a nearby nature preserve and write my stories longhand sitting in the crook of a cottonwood tree. Sometimes mosquitoes find me, my papers blow away in a breeze, the sun reflects off my screen or I simply get too sweaty, but mostly I love it.

　　I have noticed that being outside more—even if the primary activity isnt focused on nature—makes me feel more grounded, calm, connected, and relaxed. It doesnt replace the time I spend hiking, biking, skiing, backpacking, or just being in the wilderness, but it adds to it. I started to wonder if the well-being I feel being outside more in the summer could also be available in the winter, when I often feel a pervasive, faceless melancholy that is hard to put my finger on. I decided to find out by working outside for part of every weekday starting in late December.

　　There were days it was glorious. I sought out sunny spots on my front porch and back deck. Some mornings, I watched the mist lift off the nearby mountain and the play of plant shadows. In the interstitial moments between computer tasks, I observed tiny snow specks drifting through the air or basked in the sun. I listened to the magpies and mourning doves, the drips from the roof, and the rustling of dry leaves.

　　There were also times I experienced inertia. Inside my house, in the cloistered warmth, it was hard to motivate to put on all my layers, slather on sunscreen, and gather all my work stuff. Sometimes it was downright unpleasant out there. One day, the sky was grey, wind blew up my pant legs, giant construction machines whined loudly down the street, and a neighbors windchimes unleashed a flurry of complaints. Another time, sitting on my front porch with all my gear, the mailman did a doubletake, as if to say what are you doing here? One afternoon, I narrowly missed getting buried by snow sliding off the roof. I felt like a weirdo at best and wondered if I was freaking out my neighbors.

　　Nonetheless, I had committed to a month, and I was genuinely curious. I kept going. One key to consistency was keeping it simple. Often I just went out and sat on a foam pad on my back stairs or in my camp chair, which I hid under an eave so it wouldnt get frosty. A friend gave me some fingerless gloves. I made judicious use of hot drinks in thermoses.

　　One day, the weather was perfectly clear and still, topped with a cloudless Colorado sky. The winter sunbeams slanted in their gentle way, as if coaxing color from the land, and all the brown and grey plants looked gilded in the morning light. The yard appeared a bit dreamy and surreal, like I was in a snow globe. Cozy underneath a big blanket, I wondered if it was indulgent to feel that content and relaxed while working, like is this allowed?

　　Over the weeks, a funny thing started happening. I began to genuinely long to be outside during the workday, even in crappy weather. From inside the walls of my house, I could feel a pull to step outdoors. Id often take my calls outside and pace around while the crows supervised. During a five-hour meeting with a colleague, I asked if we could take our conversation on a walk around the neighborhood. He said yes and I felt my brain fog clear and my body loosen up. I became less fussy about the conditions and more flexible. A little snow? No problem. Its freezing? Whatever.

　　Naturally I wasnt always paying close attention to my surroundings, but those small in-between moments seemed to add up. Overall, I noticed I felt more alive, alert, and clear. I was more aware of the movements of the sun and the tidal flow of the temperature over the day. It made me feel more connected and, even though I wasnt necessarily interacting with more humans than usual, I strangely felt less alone.

　　In a subtle way, I also sensed myself differently. I was more tuned into the changes in my own mood and energy, as if I was remembering that, oh, right, Im a living, breathing, moving organism, not just a functioning cog in a vast machine or an object confined in the locked box of my house.

　　Was I imagining it? I wondered why being outside might make me feel this way. I was curious enough to reach out to Gregory Bratman, a professor of environmental and forest sciences, director of the Environment and Wellbeing Lab, and co-director of the Center for Nature and Health, all at the University of Washington.

　　Thinking through a number of different angles, one is if youve worked there for some time, you may have memories or associations with that place that being there—despite the difference in weather or what youre looking at or comfort level—might spark and bring to mind, he told me. That includes feelings of connection with nature, which can be associated with psychological well-being.

　　He also explained that even though I wasnt paying direct attention to nature or even moving, I was still having multisensory experiences. Emerging research suggests that there can be restorative effects to—for example—hearing birdsong, seeing trees, or smelling pleasant natural scents, such as loam or leaves.

　　There may also be unconscious physiological ways we are affected by the environment. Trees give off volatile organic compounds, some of which may have antioxidant and anti-inflammatory effects, decreasing mental fatigue and improving cognitive performance. Time spent in natural environments, in comparison to urban environments, can help restore our capacity for attention. There is also value even in micro-restorative experiences, which could include looking through a window at nature or even house plants. There is much that Western science hasnt yet explored and, Bratman told me, subjective experiences are important too in terms of our connection to nature and the impacts of nature contact on our well-being.

　　Around the fourth week of my one-person experiment, I noticed that I didnt even have to think about going outside more often. It was becoming a habit without fanfare or inertia. I just walked out the door. It was as if the walls of my house were starting to feel more porous. There was less of a mental barrier between indoors and out. One morning it was 35 degrees and snowing, and I set up my camp chair under an eave next to our wood pile. My hands werent even cold, as if my body itself was adapting. It was actually starting to feel normal.

　　I completed my experiment at the end of January, but I continue to work outside a lot—most days, in fact. I dont push myself if theres a gale or loud machines are roaring outside my house, but I tend to just gravitate outside. It may be small and accumulative, but I believe it makes an appreciable difference in my overall well-being.

　　As I write this, its sunny and unseasonably warm, in the 50s. Im sitting in my trusty camp chair in the sun, listening to the snowmelt off the roof and the coos of several mourning doves who often keep me company. Deadlines are looming but I feel unhurried. Maybe its the vast open space of the blue sky overhead, the pleasant nip of the fresh air, or the slow, beautiful arc of the sun that remind me to have patience, balance, and perspective.