Lara Büsing Rathod.
My name carries meaning. It carries history.
Lara.
My given name. Picked by my mother who loved the film “Doctor Zhivago”. Yuri was the name of her dreams. His great love Lara inspired her.
Büsing.
My father’s family name. Rooted in the history of the place that I am from. A legacy to live up to. On my own terms.
Rathod.
My married name. Laden with expectations. Full of tenderness. Connecting me to my husband. My great love.
Two lies and one truth.
a) The first being I ever felt responsible for was my little brother. I braided his hair and painted his fingernails. When he cried, I comforted him. When he was upset, I made it right. When he needed help, I am still there to help.
b) My childhood cat was black on top and white on the bottom. His name was Bounty, like the chocolate bar filled with coconut cream. He died a few years ago. Until today I can’t eat a Bounty.
c) My favourite meal growing up was the Spaghetti Bolognese my dad used to cook. He was seldom there but when he was, we had the best time cooking together.
Returning home
In some way I have returned. I am in my hometown. The place I’ve lived in for 18 years – the majority of my lifespan – yet have been away from for 14 years now. I have returned, not for good, but at least some time. I feel at home, yet out of place. I live at my mum’s yet not my childhood home. I grew up with the objects around me, yet they all stand in weird places.
My own home is across the water, waiting for me to return. With the objects in the right places. With my husband waiting for me. With my future ahead of me. In some way I will still return.
Bluebells
Bluebells in German are called the “bells of the rabbit”. While growing up I used to think that the Easter rabbit came in Spring to plant the Bluebells. To tell us that Easter was approaching and to brighten our days. This innocence of interpretation in our childhoods fascinates me. It is a good reminder that sometimes we should look at things from different perspectives and more playfully.
Hands
My hands used to be my dad’s hands. Practical, always ready to get to work. Big and rough, usually tanned from being at work outside. Then, my hands matured. They grew longer and thinner. They write and wash the dishes. They stay inside a lot. My hands now look like my mum’s hands.