HeyJaredAir’s Substack
A lyrical journey through memory, nature, and inner transformation—stories to ground us, awaken us, and remind us what it means to be alive.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 4
- Latest publication
- Sep 22, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 8, 2026
Latest issues
To the child within... (opens the original)
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Every night, my wife Maureen and I read a book to our son Miles before he falls asleep. There have been many over the years.One of my favorites is I Am Always I by . I read it to Miles a few times when he was younger.He wasn’t into it.I kept trying.Eventually, it became a running joke in our house: Dad wants to read I Am Always I again.Now Miles is in first grade and beginning to read on his own. And last week, I turned 51.For my birthday, Maureen made me this video, weaving together the animati
Grooves (opens the original)
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Every morning, I walk through my garden.I let the low light of the sun find my face. I listen to the tune of the breeze, the music of air. I greet the hummingbirds as they wait for me to sit down, then immediately begin arguing over who gets breakfast nectar first.Nothing in the garden is particularly well behaved.The fortnight lilies lean this way and that, little yogis lifting their hands toward the morning while keeping their feet firmly planted beside the aloe.The jasmine has grown unruly. I
The Lake We Passed for 18 Years (opens the original)
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Aunt Meg makes coffee slowly.I learned this after I made it quickly.We were staying with Meg in Southern California for a few days before my son Miles started first grade. She has lived in the same house for the past fifty years.And in the morning, there is coffee.Coffee is important when you’re away from home. Maybe disproportionately important. There’s something about waking up in someone else’s house and finding a familiar ritual that makes the unfamiliar feel like home.Meg brought out an old
The Freedom My Father Gave Me (opens the original)
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On July 5th, my father turned 75 years old.And I found myself sitting with a feeling that is difficult to put into words: how fortunate I am to have him as my father. The older I get, the more I understand that a parent is not simply someone who raises you. They are someone whose life becomes a map… a trail of choices, sacrifices, wounds, and wisdom that you spend decades learning how to read.My father was born into a country that did not always recognize his humanity. A Black man coming of age
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