On Loving That Which Causes You Searing Pain

The first cigarette of the day, coffee, back porch.
The sky is fresh and clean. Not a cloud to be seen
scudding across the sky, or even wafting.
Another airliner, but distant, a speck, catching my eye only because of its contrails.
A very light breeze,
moving the orange autumnal leaves
in the neighbor's trees.
Just one tree, actually, but, 'leaves', and 'trees'.
You sees what I means?
Also, Three sparrows flitting eastbound.
Wait, better yet,
sparrows flitting eastbound in threes.
They could have been another kind of bird, though,
and, pensive,
I gaze at my knees.

Speaking of which... wait, I'll get to the knees directly.

First, just to say
that today,
I will not soothsay.
Izzat okay?
Yea.

Right, so, the knees.
But mostly just the right knee.

In January of 2012, after a good two months of walking with my daughter, Olivia, from Castelo de Vide, Portugal, to a point some ten kilometers north of Meknes, Morocco, I stepped down heavily on my right foot while negotiating
the uneven terrain,
and the corresponding knee exploded
in searing pain.

I cursed my right knee, and hobbled into Meknes, where we stayed with a wealthy man and his wife, who were both involved in the 20th of February Movement there. But that is beside the point.
We then continued on to Fes, passing our 1000 kilometer mark halfway between the two cities, and camping that night in yet another olive grove, congratulating ourselves on our accomplishment and celebrating with a meal of khobz and little triangular chunks of that nasty fake cheese wrapped in golden foil.
But, also beside the point. Must resist multiple digressions.
The point is, the right knee.
Olivia returned to Portugal from Fes, and I walked east, to a barren zone without tourists, hobbling along alone.
Alone I hobbled, east, then north, yet not alone, escorted by the Gendarme Royale, for one reason or another, but that is not the point.
Must... get... to.. the... point.
What was the point?

Yeah, so, for the next month or so I walked with this bad knee. It got so bad that in the south of Spain, all the way from the Spaghetti Western zone around Cabo de Gato to the beginning of the Hint of Catalan zone at Elche, I was often not only hobbling, but literally dragging my right leg behind me, like a zombie in an old film (Because in the new ones, zombies are fast. In the old films, even as a kid watching them, I was never very scared, because I thought, 'Just run from the slow-ass, moron zombies', but now zombies are scary fast... I digress). 
So like an old-fashioned zombie I made my way through the coastal mountains of Andalucia and Murcia, camping most of the time on rocky ground, and cursing my knee all the way.
'How am I gonna get to the Middle East with you dragging your ass all the way?'
I would ask my knee.
And as I favored my left knee, it too, became weak.
'When both of you weak ass knees quit on me, I'll go on in a wheelchair,' I told them.
And so I cursed them both.

Then in Elche, I had a host, Javier, who noticed my zombie hobbling. He arranged a Shiatsu session with a friend, a Danish woman, and she shiatsu'd and reiki'd and soothed my knees, and especially the right one. As she did her magic, I found myself nearly sobbing inexplicably, which makes me think of the time I walked for three days with three Buddhists out of Istanbul. You see, I had met one of them, Thomas, earlier.... must... not... digress.
The knees.
Anyway, I told this woman that I often cursed my knees, and she told me that I mustn't curse them, but speak softly to them, encourage them, love them.
'Yes, I'll do that,' I had said, but I was thinking, 'Yeah, okay, whatever.'
After leaving Elche my knees were better. But then, after passing Benidorm, and on the way to Altea, the right knee once again seared with pain.
I cursed it.
But then, I stopped for a while, and I rubbed some of the ointment that I had been given on it, and I looked around to make sure no one was near, and I spoke to it, gently.
'I love you, knee,' I said. 'You have carried me far. I have abused you with my plodding, and with this extra weight on my back. I must carry this weight, but I will no longer plod, I will walk softly, and carefully, like an aged but graceful woman, thinking of you. You and I can carry this weight together, right knee. We can go all the way to Israel, and Palestine, and to the pyramids of Giza together, just you and I.'
Then, sensing the jealousy I may have created, I said to the left knee, 'And that goes for you too.'

When I continued, my right knee still hurt like hell, but I understood. Sometimes the wounds are too deep to forgive right away. And when the searing pain hit again, on that final kilometer to my host by the sea in Altea, I cursed the sky, the traffic, the map (as I was a little lost), ( a navigator is only as good as his map) (and I could never seem to find a decent map) (but I digress) ... I cursed and swore, so that innocent passers-by would have seen a dirty, unkempt man with a big backpack, shuffling along, dragging his right leg, swearing audibly, loudly at times, even thrashing the air, his arms waving about with clenched fists; yea, this would they have spied, but would they have spied that disheveled vagabond directing his rage at his right knee? Nay. They would not have set their eyes on that. They would have seen said wayfarer stop, distraught, yet calming himself, becoming quiet, and soothed somehow, and gazing at his knees, and saying to them, 'I love you.'