Jeremy

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.