One day a month, the judge wears yoga clothes under her black robes, making for an easy transition when she heads to her open-air yoga studio: the big grassy lawn in front of the Duval County Courthouse.

There, outside a building that’s a monument to human folly and vice, County Judge Eleni Derke leads a yoga class that’s hoping to achieve a few moments of peace, of relaxation.

It’s held the last Friday of every month at noon. It’s free, open to anyone, though for now it’s heavy on those in the legal profession.

And boy, do they need it. Though those in the law, often stressed and overworked, aren’t always the most willing converts.

"It’s kind of hard to convince people to do it," Derke observed, "and that it’s good for you."

She knows she needs it, she said. Every day in the courtroom, handling misdemeanors, she hears little but excuses. It’s draining.

"Just hearing these excuses, day in and day out," she said. "I’ll walk out, do (yoga), come back a different person altogether."

The people who share her courtroom tease her about it.

Bailiff Jason Archur said during lengthy trials she’ll sometimes tell jurors to stand up in the jury box to stretch and take some deep breaths. He laughed. She’s the boss, and they have to do what she tells them.

Derke mock-protested. It’s for their own good. "Poor guys. Did you ever sit in one of those chairs? It’s so uncomfortable."

Yoga changed her life, she said. After she was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, which affects the digestive tract, she took it up at the urging of a cousin. It can help you, she was told. Indeed. The Crohn’s, she says, is now in remission.

She’s been teaching yoga since 2014 and has completed 700 hours of training.

Derke, who was first elected judge in 1994, was born and raised on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus, in a Greek Cypriot family.

In 1974, when she was 12, they traveled to the United States for a 10-day trip as her older sister settled in at Ohio State University.

They didn’t make it home: During their vacation, Turkey invaded the northern part of the island and the residents of her beachfront hometown of Famagusta fled, grabbing what few belongings they could.

Her family, stuck in America, had two suitcases between four people. Then one of the suitcases was lost, so they had even less. As they rebuilt their lives, the only remnant she had of her childhood was a baby photo, which had earlier been sent to a relative in the U.S.

She’s been back to Cyprus three times, but wasn’t able to go home. Forty-three years later her neighborhood — which was the modern resort part of town — is still depopulated, ringed by barbed wire, with buildings pocked by broken windows, weeds growing in the streets.

Her family’s home, she presumes, is just as they left it when they went on vacation. Sometimes she wonders: Is her favorite doll still there, inside her bedroom?

She became an American citizen, but feels the pull of her homeland. "I still feel my soul is there," she said.

On this Friday, the last one in March, her morning caseload ended a little early, so she had time to talk about the past. But now noon was approaching, which meant one thing:"We’re going to do a kick-butt yoga class today."

In a red flowered top and black flared yoga pants, she went down to the courthouse parking garage and got a few extra yoga mats from the back of her hatchback car. You never know who might need one.

Outside, it was a perfect North Florida spring day. Breezy, not a cloud anywhere.

Jodi Seitlin, an attorney, was the first to meet her on the courthouse lawn. Yoga teaches her to let go of things, she said, which is handy for an attorney. "This is the No. 1 stress reliever, right here, right now," she said.

Lisa Grosskruger, a paralegal, came from San Marco, after sending out monthly reminders to get people here. In all, seven people showed up.

Giselle Carson, past president of the Jacksonville Bar Association, started the yoga classes in 2015 for the group. She showed up this day too. "As attorneys, we sit all day. Attorneys and staff – our jobs are very stressful. It’s hard to get here, but every time we leave, we’re so thankful we came," she said.

On Adams Street, a man stepped out of a restaurant every few minutes to loudly announce that day’s offerings to passing pedestrians. On Forsyth Street, a fire engine blared its siren as it raced by.

On the courthouse lawn, no one seemed to notice. Instead, the judge led her class into some breathing exercises, then on through a couple of easy poses before getting to a set of sun salutations, there under the cloudless Florida sky.

^

Matt Soergel: (904) 359-4082