When I am restless, this landscape doesn’t seem enough, these few acres of woods and houses just a taste, only a promise of the great world.
But when I go too far out, I gather my landmarks of home around me. Distant locations only make sense against my local gauge.
Time benefits from a master point like Greenwich; from that arbitrary set point, one can know the sun throughout the world, make maps, even plot the instant and the physical place where the past and future blend to a single day, balance in a temporal vacuum.
Even if I do not live in Greenwich, I know its longitudes follow the sun through the entire globe. In the same vein, place has no scaffolding without home. Home is the Prime Meridian. So if I know where and when I am in Ohio, I know also, if I were to travel, comparative time and location.
The winds across my land are not parochial. My hibernation here is not a state of isolation. The hills above the paths are not barriers. The river, disappearing around the last bend, goes out to the end of the world, proceeding from and returning here.