Today's Obsession: The Athenaeum

Yesterday, I found myself strolling around the first floor of the Boston Athenaeum, breathing in the moldy old books, the smell of floor polish, the stunning views. Every time I enter than building, I get the same feeling of passion and comfort and awe.

I picked up a membership application on the way out. $115 is about what it costs for a month of yoga, and I can get the same soothing benefits from the Athenaeum. It's about time. I owe it to myself.

The 5th floor of the Athenaeum.

Check out the arts column from freshman year, prompted by a visit to the Athenaeum after the break.

What I'm Reading: A Timely Novel (I read fiction?!)

The Help by Kathryn Stockett, $15

Laura lent me her copy of The Help and I graciously accepted it because, well, I love getting suggestions from Laura. Also, Tolle—though enlightening—is a mentally exhausting read and I wanted something with a bit more flow.

What I got was a taped together novel with umpteen narrators and one of the most impressionable messages. Kathryn Stockett’s The Help is a new-age To Kill A Mockingbird. It’s about the relationships between black maids and their white employers in the mid-20th century south. Skeeter, a frazzled yet endearing 24-year-old comes home from college with an English degree and a fresh perspective on things. But her peers and friends, many of whom did not attend college and instead got married and had children, don’t share her sentiments.

Skeeter returns from college to rejoin a society where the most pressing issue is separate toilets for blacks and whites, where the Junior League newsletter is studied more than the Bible. And Skeeter begins to question this frozen, superficial South.

After some struggle, Skeeter, with the help of many of her neighborhood maids, compiles a collection of stories told from the maids’ perspectives. Some are heartwarming, about the maids’ intense love and connection with the white children they raise or the displays of generosity they receive from their employers. And some are heartbreaking, like the stories detailing the naïve ignorance of society women and their inability to properly love their children, and the widespread abuse (League members to non-members).

The book Skeeter writes and eventually publishes is a book within a book. Because Stockett’s The Help accomplishes exactly what she would have wanted Skeeter’s book to. Though it’s written almost 50 years after the Civil Rights movement, The Help challenges the reader to evaluate the “lines” that separate them from others in their lives.

Though the storyline is touching, it’s the presentation that puts this book on numerous “Best of” lists. Stockett actually grew up in Mississippi under the care of a black maid. She is a modern Skeeter with better hair who has had years to contemplate the circumstances of interracial relations. And that meticulous thought is evident in her writing. Skeeter and Aibileen and Milly seem tangible because their characters have been so fully developed over the past several decades, down to the way they write and pronounce “tee-vee.”

Stockett so perfectly describes the clash of a pristine and beloved Southern culture with that of the Civil Rights and hippie movements of the time. But Stockett’s humility takes the book another step further. I actually got chills after I read her post-word apologizing for any mistakes she may have made in regards to her portrayal of another culture’s experiences, language or emotion.

Mostly, this book just sparks conversation. It’s intriguing and so deeply personal. It’s about these numerous women and the way their lives intersected. And as such, it should be read in a group or a book club, or at least shared among friends (Thanks, Laura). Read it, digest it, discuss it. Just be sure to ask deeper questions than those in the “Readers’ Guide” in the back. Who really cares about beauty trends of the 60’s when there are more important things to discuss?

 

"The Help," directed by Tate Taylor, comes out in theaters August 10 and features Sissy Spacek, Viola Davis, and Emma Stone (a personal favorite). 

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"God Things"

I'm blessed to be surrounded by people with varied backgrounds, experiences and opinions. And I pick and choose bits of my friends and their beliefs to incorporate into my own set of opinions. It's kind of a sticky subject, but I want to dive into religion; I just want to vent about it and brain barf various views that I struggle with, but first a little history...

I was raised Catholic, but a CEO (Christmas, Easter only) Catholic. We attended occasional services and didn't play an active role in the church. I went to youth groups when I thought it was convenient and I did what I had to to get my Scout religious medals, but that was more about the shiny medal than the strength of my beliefs. I struggled with a lot  and Catholic youth groups are notoriously bad.

I also attended to generic Christian youth group with a friend. I went to weekly meetings where the "preachers" were 20-somethings with a social life and facial piercings. They weren't crusty old geezers that I couldn't relate to. One of those preachers or teachers (or whatever) gave me this book called "Why So Many Gods," which broke down (in a very biased fashion) hundreds of world religions and philosophies and cults into basic facts. I found it fascinating and still have that book today.

I was confirmed Catholic, partly so I could find some sort of belonging and partly to appease my parents and grandparents. Even in that confirmation, I snubbed my feminist nose at the church by choosing a male patron saint (Saint Christopher), rather than a female. So technically my Catholic name is Christopher Marian Hawthorne Daniells. Quite the mouthful.

The summer after I graduated high school, I was hanging out with a friend--we'll call him David--that came from a religious family. He never pushed anything on me, but the knowledge that he was religious made me open my mind a little bit more.

And then came "Paul." Paul had been my friend for years and I knew that he was Mormon, but I never bothered to learn more about it. In the time that I'd known him, Paul had transformed from a rebellious, quasi-emo teenage Mormon to a committed zealot with a strong testimony of faith. I wanted to hear his story and what about the religion made him tick. So I asked questions, delved deeper and ultimately liked what he said. Everything that we covered in that first conversation was sugar-coated and beautiful. I ate it right up.

And then I started dating "Parker," who ironically is Paul's sister's ex-boyfriend. Also Mormon. And he helped me learned even more about the religion. When I went away to college that September, I was swimming in joy at having found a religion that was so kind and beautiful and seemed to have the answers to everything. I stuck with it, turned my blinders on, and failed to notice or observes anything else around me. I was hooked on my sugar-coated drug.

And the Mormon church does have an answer for nearly everything. Unfortunately for them, I'm a journalist and I ask a lot of gritty, detailed questions. A couple of months in, I came to a point in my path where my questions were no longer being answered in a way that I found satisfactory. It was heartbreaking, but I couldn't accept a religion that failed to provide me the answers I needed, no matter how sugary sweet it was.
...

Now, I'm a drifter. I consider myself religiously ambiguous (whatever that means). I take bits and pieces of ideology and practice and philosophy and stick them all together into something that resembles spirituality more than religious fervor. And it makes for some interesting interactions.

With my yoga practice, and the influence of certain family members, there's a largely Bhuddist influence. I'm very zen and have faith that there is a sense of balance to the world. What goes around comes around, karma, yada yada yada. I don't think about it in defined terms, necessarily, but the same ideology is there. I like the calm. I like the idea of bettering myself and being at one with myself. I like the Tolle idea of living in the now and recognizing that pain is in my head; there's great power in that.

And then there's the logical side, too. A very significant someone in my life comes from a religious background, but doesn't believe in much of anything anymore. While we disagree on a lot, I do find his arguments fascinating. No one can argue against the notion of God better than someone who once held Him near and dear to his heart.

And then there's God. Or Allah. Or Life. Or whatever. In a weird way, I don't know that science and God are necessarily exclusive. I think that they could be one in the same. Why can't Science be just as crucial a role in our lives as some all-knowing being? There's this one essay by Kant titled "Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime" in which Kant evaluates the differences between what is simply beautiful and what is sublime. Things like flowers and a pretty sunset--those are beautiful. But the Grand Canyon or the Grand Tetons, or the view from a cliff--those are sublime; they are beautiful, but they are awe-inspiring and powerful, as well. That, to me is "God." God is Sublime.
...

Ultimately, I think there's too much beauty in religion to let go of it entirely. Maybe it's not real. Neither are unicorns. But that doesn't mean that they aren't beautiful. Imagination is it's own kind of religion, too. And it's beautiful.

I used to refer to "God" (or whatever) as my own personal shrink. I admitted things in my prayers that I would never say out loud, that I would never tell even my closest friends. There's something therapeutic and freeing in that level of deep honesty, in the idea that something, or some being, loves unconditionally.

My friend "Alex" is a science-y major and still maintains a small bit of her spirituality. There are some things, she explains that are "God things." And to me, that seemed like the most simple explanation ever. I may not subscribe to the beliefs of any organized religion, but I can't help but believe in God things, in Sublime things and in the sublime beauty of the world. Maybe it's all unreal, but what does it hurt to have a free unconditional shrink. And let's be honest, unicorns are pretty darn sublime.

Port(photo)folio

So I've been in this photo class for a while and have been shooting and correcting and editing pictures to present for the class. I upload most of the photos onto a Facebook album that I've now made public so anyone can see it. Check it out here.

Today's Obsession: lululemon

I’ve written before about how a good workout outfit has the power to motivate like none other. When I’m wearing something stylish and supportive and comfortable, I’m so much better prepared to go for a jog or make my way to Back Bay Yoga for a hip hop yoga session.

Laura introduced me to lululemon, and their products are genuinely amazing. The fabric is sturdy, yet breathable and the colors are bright and inspiring. Everything within the company is about motivation; it’s about making exercise accessible and fun, and about setting goals for a healthy and inspired lifestyle. Unfortunately, their “inspired lifestyle” comes at a steep price. Last time I checked, 80 dollar yoga pants weren’t really penciled into my monthly costs.

But on an impromptu visit to the store with Laura, I saw these pants, which are both supportive and stylish, what with the ever-so-subtle peacock print. I can’t help but think about them on an extremely regular basis. They’re just so freaking pretty, a total ten.

It’s funny… the things that matter and that I want enough, I don’t worry about. I have this deep-seated comfort in knowing that I will eventually buy them. I want it for myself and they are quality purchases (I mean, lululemon clothes last 5 years). So it seems only natural that I do. And these pants will be mine, maybe not now, but in the near future. I've actually calculated that I can probably afford to buy one lulu article per month and slowly build up my lululemon attire. I just can’t help it, I’m obsessed.

lululemon Wonder Under Crop, $68

The Secret Side to Me

The other day, I was drinking pickle juice from the jar, and came to the realization that if someone were to see me doing it, they would think I was insane. It also got me thinking about the many aspects of my life and personality that many people might not know. So now for no apparent reason and just because I wanted to, I compiled a list of 20 various little known facts about Marian Daniells:

1. I drink pickle juice.
2. I don't know what color my eyes are.
3. I once hit an F above high C.
4. I occasionally pee with the door open.
5. I'm not allowed to give blood.
6. I love the word "gritty."
7. I think roses are cliche (except yellow), but love lillies and irises.
8. I can hear two songs in my head at the same time.
9. I frequently whistle "Moonlight Bay" but don't know the words.
10. I send and receive handwritten letters.
11. I like the left side of my face better.
12. I've never kissed a girl.
13. I once considered joining the marines.
14. I've been known to turn in essays riddled with sass. Examples include "Kant the cunt" and a physics paper on applying makeup, complete with diagrams and a glossary.
15. I've started half a dozen books, but never finished one.
16. I don't throw myself birthday parties because my friends are so diverse, I'm worries what would happen if they were all in the same room.
17. I prefer hanging out in small groups of even numbers.
18. Once upon a time, I ran a 6:20 mile.
19. I was a mathlete.
20. I once won a pie eating contest in my bikini.

Noms!!

Column: Yoga an expensive but killer workout

News Staff Illustration/Will Macowski

By Marian Daniells, News Staff
Huntington News

I bought my first yoga mat when I was in high school, after my dad’s doctor suggested he attend yoga classes to help him relieve stress and relax. We probably went to three classes at the local YMCA before we lost our motivation completely, and I forgot about the mat.

Five years later, that same pink mat magically rose from the dead. It traveled 3,000 miles in my dad’s luggage at my request before it finally arrived in my hands in New York, where I was on co-op this past spring. I decided to give yoga another chance.

One of my best friends, Laura, had been blogging about Boston’s yoga scene for the entire semester I was in New York. I blog-stalked her as a way to keep up on her life and feel some sense of connection to the people I’d left behind in Boston. She made the Boston yoga community sound like the most wonderful, prestigious club. She described her physical and emotional transformation, the benefits of yoga and her obsessive love for lululemon, a store for yoga gear and clothing in the Prudential Center. I couldn’t help but find her enthusiasm contagious.

My first yoga adventure was trying Bikram yoga – which is commonly referred to as “hot yoga”–and is a whole different breed of crazy. It’s completely different than traditional types of yoga. In Bikram, yogis go through two breathing exercises and 26 postures during each 90 minute session. And it’s in a room that’s over 100 degrees. People who do Bikram seldom do traditional yoga and vice versa. Although Laura wasn’t a big fan of Bikram, I had to give it a try.

There’s really only one rule to Bikram yoga: you can’t leave the room. I, however, managed to break that sacred rule during my very first session. Sometime during the first half hour, I started seeing spots. Then I heard the telltale ringing in my ears, and knew I was in for a difficult next hour. Before the class was out, I vomited into a towel and came dangerously close to passing out. The instructor begrudgingly let me run out of the room to vomit properly in a toilet, but I did manage to return to the room and finish my session. I found some sort of sick pride in proving to myself that I could overcome my body’s limitations.

See the whole article here.

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Reflecting on Relationships

There was this boy, Tash, in New York. I found myself thinking about him this morning and concluded that he’s probably one of the most influential people in my life. I didn’t expect it, but something about Tash changed me.

Going into the relationship, I (too soon) asked “the relationship question,” wondering if there was a chance for anything concrete between us. He very honestly told me that while he enjoyed spending time with me and being exclusive, there wasn’t really any reasonable expectation of longevity. Initially, I was hurt by this, but once I accepted the situation for what it was, I was still willing and happy to pursue something—whatever—with Tash.

So we dated. We hung out. We read and talked and watched documentaries. We explored New York and new hobbies.

And about a month into it, I found myself in an awkward situation. I had said the g word (girlfriend), and he nonchalantly said that he wouldn’t mind calling me his girlfriend. He asked if I would want that. I heard him ask. I kept talking, avoiding it as much as possible. He asked again. And again, thinking I hadn’t heard. Eventually the conversation smoothed over into something else, the question unresolved.

When I first moved to New York, I didn’t want to date. I didn’t want to think about boys and relationships and the drama and heartbreak of it all. I wanted to focus on me, to exile myself to a tiny island for six months and see what I came away with.

Tash happened kind of by accident. We were introduced by a mutual friend and hit it off. He taught me about aesthetics and beauty and religion and spontaneity. And I taught him about… I don’t even know. But it worked, we worked. And he treated me better than I’d ever been.

But when he mentioned the whole girlfriend thing, I kind of freaked out. I had become so comfortable with the idea of not being his girlfriend. Having guidelines was fine because I could follow them. I didn’t have to rely on him; I could be my own strong, independent self. I didn’t need him, but I could still find happiness in spending time with him.

It was healthy. For so long, my relationships were marked by codependency. I wanted someone to take care of me and to take an interest in everything I was involved in. I wanted that complete meshing of my life with someone else’s. There is one person, in particular, that comes to mind. I think the world of him and I respect him highly, but I would never let myself be in a relationship with him again. Simply put, I loved him in the unhealthiest way possible. And it didn’t benefit me.

But Tash… I learned to love him simply. I learned to love myself first and him second. And eventually he did become my boyfriend, but not because of some conversation or conscious decision. We just started calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend. there was no grandiose show of affection; just two people admitting that they work well together.

And we were right--there wasn’t any longevity to it. We spent a semester learning about each other and then said our goodbyes when he moved back home. No harm, no foul. I look back on my time with him and still smile. There is no bitterness or resentment, just a spot in my heart for someone that helped make me happy during a particular time in my life.

He set the standard for what I should expect for myself: someone who cares about me, who respects me and my opinion; someone who wants to see me and spend time with me and who doesn’t think of my as just another commitment, a distraction; someone who pushes me to try new things; someone who calls me gorgeous and means it; someone who texts me kitchy-cute (slightly dirty) things or lyrics just because I’m on his mind. And someone who lets me love myself first and foremost.

Going forward, I would never accept anything less.

Tash and me

A Random List of Peeves

I still talk to my parents almost every day… I’m curious to know what’s going on at home and how our limo business is doing and how Chip and Kitty are. On the phone the other day, my dad mentioned that he didn’t know what my “pet peeves” are. So in no particular order and just because I want to, I’ve compiled a list of things that push my buttons.

1. For the life of me, I cannot understand what excuse anyone can have for smelling badly. With countless brands of deodorant, gum and inexpensive body sprays, there’s just no excuse. I don’t care how hot it is outside. You smell like a monkey.
2. I’m all for meandering the city with my girlfriends, but when people decide to walk four people across, on a busy sidewalk, at a glacial pace, it’s war. Blame the New Yorker in me, but there is no excuse. It’s just rude. And if I have to say passive aggressive things or “accidentally” elbow you to get by, your guffawing and bitching is completely unwarranted.
3. Jackhammers.
4. I hate when I’m in the middle of a conversation and the other person says something that I don’t hear. And when I say “what?” they respond “Never mind.” Soooo not okay for numerous reasons. First off, I legit couldn’t hear you. Secondly, by saying never mind, it comes off as if you think that I couldn’t understand what you were trying to convey. And lastly, it totally kills the conversation. Don’t be a murderer; it’s just not cool.
5. Telemarketers.
6. I find it difficult to love “friends” that only ever call about the bad things and drain me of my energy. Basically, any relationship that doesn’t benefit me, as well. It’s exhausting and entirely unfair. I mean I love you, but please don’t drain me of my energy and advice.
7. Hypocrisy. 
8. I can never understand why "larger" people wear clothes so completely inappropriate for their body type. It's distasteful and doesn't help them in the least. There are flattering styles for all body types.
9. I hate hate hate when people take the last bit of toilet paper and don’t replace a roll. No one looks cute running down the hall, sans pants, to grab another roll from the hall closet.
10. This one’s relatively new, but I can’t believe the behavior of people in the dressing rooms of retail shops. Yes, I realize it’s a service industry, but I’m not your maid. You don’t need to bring in a billion different clothes, just to leave them in a heap on the floor so I can pick them up and hang them appropriately. Especially when there’s a line of people waiting for a room and they have to wait until I can muscle everything off your dressing room floor. RUDE.
11. On a similar note, please don’t try on clothes when you have the world’s worst BO. All the Febreze in the world can’t fix it.

Not the greatest alarm clock in the world...

Today's Obsession: Henri Cartier-Bresson

It’s been a while since I wrote. Classes started and between classes, work, my social life and Gorilla gluing furniture, I’ve been quite a busy bee. I’m taking two classes this summer: Photo Basics for Art Majors (not an art major, but I wiggled my way into the class) and French 2. The photo class is incredible and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed toting around my Canon Rebel T1i and taking annoying pictures of all my friends. I’ve found I like color. I like gritty details. I like life and dirt and capturing a moment. And in my French class, I’m learning so quickly. I love the way French feels in my mouth, the way it sounds to my ears. I used to describe Spanish as chocolate. But French is like a chocolate soufflé.

This morning in my photo class (photos to come), we were looking at the work of this photographer-turned-painter, Henri Cartier-Bresson. I’m so enthralled by his photos. Somehow, with his analog camera, he managed to capture the most incredible photos, these moments of human reality that are fluid and stunning. I can’t even describe it. His photos say more than any writer could.

Maybe that’s why I’m intrigued so much by photography. Often, photos are pretty or they depict some sort of scene. They accompany a story or they complement an article. But other times, photos go above and beyond simply being a sidekick to some superhero story. Sometimes, they manage to capture the visual and an entire story all in one.

A while ago, Edwin showed me this photo of a girl sitting at a French café. He said he liked it because it somehow captured exactly what Paris is. It’s youth and style and diversity and people watching at outdoor cafes. Turns out, that photo was taken by Cartier-Bresson.