Crumbs

She wears old men's shoes. They slosh through the puddles as she drags her shorter, lame leg behind, hobbling with such determination she arrests my full attention. The wind wants my umbrella, but I ignore it. I've seen this granny before, hauling fruits and veggies from market, and at the bakery, the butchers, or the fish market. No beggar this. Simply hard working, now bent and twisted by the years, burdened perhaps with loads that I can't see. Yet, now, she is comely. The puddles reflect her gnarled, crippled hand as she cautiously pulls out an old plastic bag. Gently moving around the edge of the park she sprinkles carefully crushed breadcrumbs in graceful sweeps. The poetic grandeur of bread caught in gnarled remains of old roses is captured in the wind wrinkled puddles.  The rain pummels us all, but she dexterously dances with it, happy to be feeding her little flock. Pidgeons, doves, and sparrows follow her in sweet expectation. Together they are swept up in a moment of dedication to each other. In the peace of provision and charity, granny smiles, giving with enthusiasm, bowing to her equally eager audience.

To live in today and enjoy it. That is pilgrimage.