Dear Sari, I'm sorry.

You always fit, you're always in style, but I can no longer wear you.

Dear Sari,

I am sorry. You always fit, you are always in style, but I can no longer wear you.

I have worn your six yards of unstitched fabric pinned and draped in the most graceful way for the biggest milestones of my life.

My spiritual initiation.

My college graduation.

My wedding day.

Expecting a child.

Family portraits.

I wore a sari almost every day for eight months while studying and teaching in Mayapur, India.

I have worn the same sari sometimes spanning decades, connecting with all kinds of saintly people.

But I can no longer wear your beautiful length of cloth, pinned and draped in the most graceful way.

Why?

I have a toddler.

A squirmy puppy of a toddler. The lifting and holding and adjusting and running after said puppy seems fundamentally incompatible with your long piece of unstitched cloth, held together only by a couple safety pins. Some women seem to handle the addition of children while wearing such a traditional garment with no problem. But I just cannot seem to do so. Quite a few of my favorite saris have rips and holes from being tugged and pulled on the pins just a little too hard.

My bin of faithful silks and block prints and South Indian handlooms have been stored away for years. Although I long to wear a sari regularly once again, I know that it will be a long time.

How long?

I realized the other day - until I no longer need to pick up my child.

And then a pang of forlornness hit me - one day, I will no longer need to pick up my child.

I remember so clearly the day when I could scoop up my son with ease and nestle him within my arms, so tiny, so light. Fast forward a couple years and he is now spilling out of my arms. I still relish each time I get to hold him and carry him close, but one day, he will no longer fit.

He will be too big.

Too heavy.

One day, he may even be taller than me. Not only will I no longer need to pick him up, I won’t be able to! He will be a man whom I can no longer lift.

One of my husband’s favorite aphorisms is “Die to live”, which means that we are constantly facing little deaths every single day, and if we can embrace them with grace and integrity then we can truly live.

As a mother, I face these “little deaths” with my son all the time - yes, he took his first steps, but that means the end of his adorable crawling.

Yes, he had his first fresh haircut, but that means the end of his golden baby curls that shimmer in the sun.

Yes, one day he’ll start his exciting first day of school, but that means the end of our slow mornings making breakfast and reading books together.

So many firsts, so many lasts.

The “firsts” can feel thrilling (“birth”) and the “lasts” can feel heart-wrenching (“death”), but in so many ways they are two sides of one door, each one leading to different destinations. Opening and closing these doors with integrity and grace is what it means to “Die to live.” After all, one day I will walk though that big, mysterious door at the conclusion of this life, and I hope I may do so with that integrity and grace.

Not being able to pick up my son one day is a little death.

But being able to wear a sari again will be a little birth!

So, my dear Sari, one day I will open up that bin and hang all of your glorious fabric within my closet once again. And since you always fit and are always in style, your fabric will be the same. But after so many years of births and deaths, I pray that I may be different.

More graceful.