Los Angeles has been my home for nearly 20 years, and the devastation here, now, is unfathomable. Entire neighborhoods have been reduced to rubble. Houses, businesses, schools, places of worship—all gone, devoured in an apocalyptic conflagration. The words seem both hyperbolic and insufficient at the same time, incapable of capturing the surreal tragedy of this moment. There’s no taking stock, no gleaning of lessons, no perspective broad enough to grasp the full picture of what the disaster means for the future. There will be plenty of time for all that, but right now the fires continue to rage, and the heroic battle to contain them presses on.

I’m thinking about my friends who lost their homes. I’m thinking about houses I’ve written about, now reduced to smoldering ash, and the love and care that went into making them. I’m thinking about the woman I saw on the news describing the home she lost as a “member of my family.” I’m thinking about houses as repositories of memory, guardians of history. I’m thinking about the dogs and cats and coyotes and mountain lions. I’m thinking about the shameless charlatans—the spoiled technocrat man-babies, convicted felons, and Academy Award winners with National Socialist leanings—who want to exploit the tragedy to sow political discord. I’m thinking.

It’s practically impossible to find the appropriate tone to address a cataclysm like this when your platform is, in the old parlance, a glossy shelter magazine, chockablock with beautiful houses and shiny happy people. But after four decades at this game, I think I have some insight into the meaning of home, which transcends the superficial and the frivolous. Our homes are the frameworks we erect to give our lives structure, meaning, beauty. Through that lens, the scale of loss is incalculable. LA, I love you.