I can tell you why I love a movie, why a dish delights me, why I can’t get enough of a friend. But it’s much harder to explain why I can’t stop listening to a certain song, why I’m drawn to someone’s body, or why a landscape, a place feels like mine.

There’s a quality to places—a kind of ambience—that defies naming. Familiarity isn’t quite the word. It’s more like this: if you were teleported there at a random moment, you’d know the exact month. The light, the temperature, the wind, the smell—they’d all whisper the answer. And above all that, there’s the atmosphere, the tone, the vibe—whatever you want to call it. Someday I’ll find the word for it. But today, I want to describe a different State.

There’s a moment when you realize you love someone. It can hit suddenly, one morning, as that someone is leaving for work. The realization is brief, but intense. If you’re lucky, you get to share it someday. Often, you don’t. And when you don’t, it intensifies. It burns. You carry it like a scar for the rest of your life.

Yesterday, I returned from the Californian White Mountains. I drove through Owens Valley, stopped by the petrified pipe organs of the Red Rock Canyon, got reprimanded by a sheriff in the beautifully depressing town of Mojave—and I had that moment. So, to avoid the scar, I’ll just say it now:

I love you, California.
And one day, I will find the word to name that love.