Judy. About eight years ago or so, I was working briefly in Athens,
Georgia, and wandered into a yin yoga class. According to the listing at the
YMCA, it was taught by “Jeremy”. Little did I know how much that class and
teacher would affect me.
Yin yoga is, on
the surface, a passive type of yoga, where one holds a pose, usually on the
floor, for 2-5 minutes. But by doing so, ligaments are stretched to increase
flexibility, and the time spent in the pose leads to deep meditation.
Ultimately it became my favorite form of yoga, easing back issues I’ve dealt
with for years and calming my mind as no class had done before.
Jeremy taught
every class exactly the same way. We knew what pose was coming next, and could
move fluidly from one to the next. Often, during the poses, he read to us from
yoga masters. In the summers, when the loud YMCA campers came running in from
the outside, he quietly reminded us to “Imagine you’re invisible, and the sound
passes right through you.” His words flowed like a litany, and I could feel my
body relax into the deep stretches. He reminded us that we know our bodies
better than any teacher, and that if it didn’t feel right, we should never do
what was asked of us.
When my job ended,
I was so addicted that I drove for an hour every Wednesday just to take his
class. An avid cycler and walker—Jeremy didn’t own a car—he worried that I was
messing with my carbon footprint, but I couldn’t find another class that
approached his. I still took other classes, but the weekly yin became an
addiction.
I always noticed
when I walked into class that Jeremy was speaking to other students about
Athens events—art shows, garden tours, book signings, etc. He went to New York yearly to visit an old
partner, see theatre and art, and talk to other intellectuals. Once a year he
traveled to Mexico for yoga training. Often, he spoke of his 96-year-old
father, and how active he was.
We talked about
meeting for a chat (“Tea?” I asked. “How about juice?” he responded.), but it
just never happened. Knowing I would miss his garden on the city tour, he
invited me to stop by, but I never did. I did go to his quirky photography
show.
When we moved into
Atlanta proper, I found a yin class within walking distance—it was a much more
popular discipline by then. I texted Jeremy about it, and he responded that he
was pleased I found a class, and even more so that I was reducing my carbon
footprint. I never took his class again, though once when my daughter and I
went to the State Botanical Gardens in Athens, we ran into him. He was
celebrating his father’s birthday with a party there, and invited us to stop by
and meet him. We did, and he was as charming as Jeremy.
Last week Ted and
I stayed in Athens with our daughter Leslie and her husband Daniel, and I went
to a yoga studio Jeremy had recommended years ago. Over the door to the studio
was a sign: “What would Jeremy do?” After class I asked the instructor if that
was Jeremy Ayers.
“Oh, yes,” he
said, “and the tapestries are his as well.”
“Is Jeremy still
around?”
“Oh, no. Jeremy
died two years ago.”
Despite the fact
that I’d not gone to his class in years, I felt like I’d been hit with a
hammer.
Wanting to know
more, I googled Jeremy Ayers. What I found was a beautiful member of the Athens
art scene, a poet, a writer, a muse to numerous musicians who came out of Athens. He was credited with lyrics to a B-52’s song. Michael Stipe,
grateful for Jeremy’s influence, used him as the center of his art installation
in New York. In that city, Jeremy had, in his youth, developed a drag persona as
Sylvia Thinn. If you check IMDB, you’ll find him credited with music and
production work.
I was amazed, and
profoundly humbled that this man, beloved by so many, and with such a full
life, had quietly—and humbly—taught a yoga class at the Y to share the benefits
of his practice. The world knew and loved Jeremy Ayers.
But to me, he was
the finest yoga teacher I’ve ever had. Rest in deep peace, Jeremy. And thank you.
