A few months ago, I discovered I likely had a touch of bursitis in my right knee. I could hardly walk up the stairs in my building without a lot of pain.

Rising up from a chair or from sitting on the floor was no picnic either.

The doctors I consulted with were not surprised. They could not say exactly what was behind the changes in the joint which led to my discomfort. They relayed words I didn’t want to hear.

“You’re getting older.”

They recommended a short course of anti-inflammatory capsules, trying a topical gel (the one that is advertised a lot on TV where a middle-aged man tries to re-enact some of his best dance moves from his twenties), and frequent application of ice.

I was directed to start a PT regimen and vowed to take my “homework” seriously.

Within my frustration — my body was not working the way I had gotten accustomed to it working — I found a strange appreciation growing for how the body is designed. I thought a lot about how a person moves.

You don’t have to be DaVinci to recognize the beauty in how the body is designed. The beauty is not merely aesthetic. It’s beautiful in how it “works.”

I imagine being in good company when it comes to taking my body’s design for granted.

Along with my new appreciation for the body’s design, I became very interested in one of the most incredible design concepts of all time.

Pain turned out to be necessary for me to put my focus on this.

My discomfort was greatest when I had to climb my building’s STAIRS.

Steps, as a structural concept, evolved along with the development of human beings. Just like wheels reflected a solution for the challenge of moving heavy objects any distance, steps represented a direct answer to the problem of wanting to access things on another level.

Early versions might have been formed out of mud and straw and were not consistently sized, but they did what they were supposed to do.

Department stores have escalators and high-speed elevators are important features of skyscrapers (the elevator in The Shanghai Tower travels at 46 miles per hour). Yet, all buildings that are more than one story have stairs, even if just for fire escape routes.

A staircase at Mount Nielsen in Switzerland, at over eleven thousand steps, rising over seven thousand feet, is often considered the greatest staircase in the world. Whether connecting the top of a mountain to a valley, or making it easier to move from your bedroom to your kitchen, they perform the same function.

When I experienced my bursitis flare-up, bending my right leg at the knee and putting extra weight on it as I lifted myself to the next level, was painful, but it made me think about rising to the next level in any endeavor.

I thought about the staircase I encountered when I visited Lisbon almost six years ago.

I had a reservation at an Air BnB in the Alfama district, but I couldn’t find it by address. I must have walked between the subway station and the Fado Museum, where the apartment was supposed to be, four times. Eventually, I called the host on my iPhone for guidance.

The entrance for the lodging I arranged was above the main road, several flights of stone stairs up, past two tavernas (I picked up my key at one). Once in the building, the apartment was another three flights up. A bottle of wine and wonderful views of clothes hanging out to dry from balconies and children playing in the alley awaited.

I learned that when you want to get to a higher space, one with a great view, sometimes being able to rise in small steps is the best strategy. It can be good to rest whenever you feel the need. I learned to take advantage of support that showed up along the way.

I grasped railings anchored into the sides of buildings and pulled myself up periodically. and when two tall college-aged boys offered to carry my suitcase, I didn’t say no.

Learning the lesson of taking things in steps is no small thing.