Stasis

I have been thinking about stasis. There are several definitions for the word stasis. This one is from the online etymology dictionary: stasis (n.)

"stoppage of circulation," 1745, from medical Latin, from Greek stasis "a standing still, a standing; the posture of standing; a position, a point of the compass; position, state, or condition of anything;" also "a party, a company, a sect," especially one for seditious purposes; related to statos "placed," verbal adjective of histēmi "cause to stand," from PIE root *sta- "to stand, make or be firm."

And this one is from Merriam-Webster, also online:

Stasis (noun)                                                                            

1: a slowing or stoppage of the normal flow of a bodily fluid or semifluid: such as

a: slowing of the current of circulating blood

b: reduced motility of the intestines with retention of feces

2a: a state of static balance or equilibrium : STAGNATION

b: a state or period of stability during which little or no evolutionary change in a lineage occurs

                Harvard neuroscientists have discovered the neurons that control hibernation, at least in mice: State of Stasis | Harvard Medical School (see here the lovely rendition of Sleeping Beauty and her handmaidens). The article advises “By effectively pausing time itself for an individual, a state of stasis promises to enable the repair of lethal injuries, prolong life and allow for travel to distant stars.”

                The online Psychology Dictionary suggests that stasis is “a condition of stability, equilibrium and inactivity that is the opposite of being in flux.”

                There is also conventional stasis rhetoric and theory stemming from the Greeks and Romans (Aristotle and Hermagoras, Cicero, Quintilian, and Hermogenes and the like) but this stuff is terribly dry.

                The pandemic for me is a strange universe where I am experiencing stasis, which by its definition promises growth, when one emerges. I know this must be a shared experience of many others; we hear mostly in the media about the extreme cases and the most obvious. Those who have contracted the virus and been miserable, those whose mental health was unstable or became unstable during the pandemic, those who have had to learn how to juggle children doing schoolwork from home or not being able to care for aging parents or frontline workers adapting to an ever-changing model of safety and procedures.

My form of stasis could be characterized as follows: I am not depressed, not even forlorn. I am frustrated at times. I am not overly stressed, even as my workload seems to have increased – I am working from home and I can wear loose-fitting clothing, abstain from make-up or coloring my hair, exercise in our ad hoc home gym, and return to my desk sweaty. I can do dinner prep at 10am and walk around the block whenever I feel like taking a break. I can stop to talk to my adult son or daughter living with us about things that have nothing to do with work – their job search, what they are reading in their college English class, their latest amusement via TikTok. We seem to have rare reasons to leave the house. When we do, we don our masks like good soldiers and drive short distances to the same places: the grocery store, gas station, Target, our favorite coffee houses.

I seem to move in smaller and smaller circles with each passing month. We talk about going places, even plan trips and then find we must cancel them. We did more last Spring then we do now, taking a five-day trip to Walla Walla for subdued but sunny wine-tasting, making the occasional daytrip to the coast as we house-hunted. We ended up acquiring a beach cabin and we go there often, and I pinch myself every time I wake up to the sound of the sea, but it is also now one of our small circles of stasis – rinse and repeat.

I find that this stasis feels like loss. We have adapted our ways of communicating with others, of maintaining familial bonds, and our dearest friendships. We’ve seen the less close ones fade away. There is more effort involved and yet less, if you are an introvert like me, because the stress of socializing is practically non-existent. I no longer have to get dressed up, engage in lively conversation, order off a menu (gauging the affability of the waiter, adjusting to the milieu, the lighting, the space, the sounds), squeeze into a row of velvet seats at the theater. The loss still exists. It’s a fleeting thing, like a silk scarf you once wore around your neck smartly but cannot locate in your drawer. Everything is softened all around you; the edges of your kitchen counter now so familiar, the coffee you make daily grows cold in the pot. You stare at the same choice of leggings, t-shirts, warm socks in your bureau and the same scene out your front window, changing ever so slightly as each season arrives. The repetition wears thin.

And I am tired, in a metaphysical way, despite my efforts at “centering myself” every other day with yoga, meditation, cooking (which has gotten very old), and reading a variety of books. Right now, I am reading a collection of works by Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Last week I read a novel about an aging artist, by the bookstore owner in Manzanita. Prior to that I read Margaret Atwood’s latest book of poems. The words flow through me like gentle raindrops that dry on the skin. I am cold all the time this winter and my legs are stiff as young birch trees. I find myself eating many small bowls of salty nuts – the experience of crunching down, pulling each nut from the dish, reminds me I am awake, I am not in hibernation.

When the stasis ends, this so-called stability, equilibrium, inactivity (yes, all apply) what promises lie at all our respective feet? And is the stasis, static, or is it (in contrast to the definition) evolving? Does each day of the abating pandemic (and arguably it hasn’t really begun to abate) represent a step away from stasis? An inch of pulling our rubber boots up from the drying concrete?

I’ve stopped asking myself the questions that threatened to turn my sadness into full-blown grief. Questions like, “when will it be over?” “when will the children be able to be back in the classroom?” “when will it be safe to travel again?” I’ve learned to reframe these ponderous thoughts, like a young child yearning to grow up and leave their childhood home, their small town, the people they’ve always known, to discover the world outside the world they’ve only known. What will the world look like tomorrow? How will I be different?