Managing impatience

I am impatient. I want to get there. I want to be done packing and have made all of the decisions about what to keep, what to throw away, what to store, what I just can't live without. I want to stick my broadfork into the soil and see how deep it will go. Can I till this clay? Can I make beans and strawberries and tomatoes grow? Where will we get our manure and the phosphorus I know that we need to add to the soil.

Of course, I am fully aware that we will be there soon enough, and that mixed in with my impatience (at its root perhaps) is fear. In five weeks or maybe six, there I'll be. Out in the middle of the prairie, with nothing to do but dig down and dig deep into that soil, no matter what kind of fight it puts up. There I'll be, hundreds of miles away - an 11 hour drive away - from the friends I depend on and the places I've known for going on forty years. Yes, I'll have Bill, and I'll have Pepper, and yes the sunrises are really really pretty but it's a long time between sunrise and bedtime and what if I don't like the other three people per my square mile?