I don’t know how old I was, but I’m sure it was young teenagerhood.
It was a winter’s day in 1970-something, and I had been outside, bundled up in my usual upstate NY winter gear, including gloves and a knit cap, standing among many cords of wood my dad and us had piled up all over the parking area between our Lake Clear cabin (which was beside our three-story 1880s house) and the barn. I had literally just been standing there, looking around. Don’t remember why anymore. I frequently, to this day, get caught up in my surroundings, by just being there. I just take in all that is around me in a kind of active meditational state, I guess, feeling the atmosphere, the ground, the sun against my face, you name it—whatever calls out to me to do this in the first place. I can just…stand there…unmoving…and simply…look.
Anyway, I suddenly felt the lightest “touch” on the very top of my knit cap. I turned around scanning my surroundings, but saw nothing.
Just then, my youngest brother, Greg, opened a window up on the second floor and—laughing—called out to me: “A bird was just sitting on top of your head! It just flew off!”
He said it had just been sitting there, on my head, for a period of time—and had just flown off when I moved. He asked, “Didn’t you feel it?” “No,” I said, “I hadn’t!”
We had a good laugh between the two of us, then we both continued on doing whatever it was kids that age did up in the Adirondacks on gray, wintry days….