You know how life gets - the wild whirlwind of activity that sometimes excites you and other times makes you feel like you're losing your grip.

On this particular afternoon last month, about 1,000 miles away from home, I was riding a bicycle along the green pathway in Québec, Canada. The view was beautiful: wide open fields, numerous trees, houses, quiet streets.

As I rode past a small creek, I stopped. It was as if something from deep inside - some small voice of wonder from many years ago - told me to.

In this small creek, there might be tadpoles.

And there were.

I stood quietly, holding the handles of the bike and watching the odd-shaped encountered during a week-long visit.

The point of the trip had been simple enough: to write. And write. And write some more.

I had first gotten the idea in high school when I saw a poster advertising a New England school for artists. Students chose a specialty and spent part of the summer working on it. It looked good.

A few years later, I watched a movie in which a group of artists and friends spent time at the beach, indulging in their writing and sharing it with each other in readings and discussions.

That looked good, too.

Last year, I decided it was time to find a place to go. I wanted to escape

distractions, dive into my imagination and see if I could write fiction.

I did find my answer to that question - and more.

After looking for just the right place, I had chosen to stay at The Writers' Retreat, a bright yellow Victorian house with three studios limited to one writer each. Run by Micheline Côté, it offered a quiet environment, delicious meals, privacy and encouragement. There was even a bike one could borrow to ride along Quebec¹s green pathway.

The trip took place after a couple of years that, though they had joys, had some serious heartbreak as well.

A personal loss.

Here's part of the story: About two years ago, I stood in a hospice holding my father's hand as he died. He had always been a strong man who loved his family deeply. A few years earlier, he had been diagnosed with lung cancer.  He took chemotherapy - partly for us - and fought the disease courageously.

Over the course of four years, he grew weaker physically, but he remained surprisingly calm. This is not to say he wasn't upset about what was happening to him. Anyone would be. But he handled it with grace and faith. A retired Methodist minister, he continued to be a listening ear for people who were troubled and occasionally to give guest sermons at churches. When he could no longer walk, he lay in bed and wrote letters of comfort to family and friends.

In his last moments of life, his eyes were closed, but he had an expression that looked like he was seeing something that pleased him.

His breathing slowed, and then he was gone.

Dad was not the first person I loved who had died. But his was the death that was the hardest to adjust to.

I was 45 and, for the first time, I began to feel old. I grieved, and I saw and felt the grief of others. A deep-felt realization of the brevity of life and the reality of death accompanied his passing, followed by an urgency to live life while I had it.

My life has been good. There have been wonderful people and opportunities, and for that I am grateful. But I also have a number of things I want to achieve that I haven't, and there are times when I feel that very keenly.

The time was right to pursue one of my dreams: immersing myself in one of the things I love most.

I did write while in Québec, and came back with two completed stories and the beginnings of about three or four others.

And a personal change.

I also came back a little changed. The retreat was so peaceful, the schedule so relaxed, that a few unexpected things happened. One morning I awoke at 4:15 due to a nightmare based on a long-ago experience. It startled me and kept me up for about two hours. Then it seemed to resolve itself. I think the nightmare was my mind trying to finally tie up the experience and put it at peace.

Another time, I was working on a short story and suddenly thought of a friend who had died years earlier. We were about the same age and became ill with similar symptoms at the same time. My problem was not malignant. Hers was. We each underwent surgery. I lived. She did, too - for a while - but the cancer came back and took her while she was in her mid-thirties. That is something I've never completely come to terms with.

I took that experience, to some degree, and put it on the page.

Not all of the experiences were so wrenching. Most were quite pleasant.

I got to know a Canadian writer named Phyllis Spencer, who is working on a novel that is so well written it should have a successful future. Her talent impressed me, but even more impressive was her appreciation for life.

One evening we went to have dinner in Magog, a village about 10 miles from the retreat. We returned after dark, and what a trip that was: curving unpaved roads that, at points, rose so high it looked as though we were going to drive right off of the tops. Wildlife walking around in the road.

And, to add a little more excitement, no street lights!

There was the little cantina within biking distance of the retreat. It had a sinfully good dish - French fries mixed with brown gravy and small pieces of cheese - and a few picnic tables so patrons could eat outdoors. One afternoon, as I had lunch, I listened to a man speak with an American accent, two men reply to him in French-accented English, and at another table, a family talk entirely in French. Meanwhile, at a child's size table, three teen-agers laughed as they tried to seat themselves comfortably.

There was the American woman who stopped to introduce herself as I was looking at an old cemetery. She's one of Tony and Micheline's neighbors and enjoys meeting the writers who stay at the retreat.

There was the pleasant man who was walking a dog along the green pathway. We both said hello and I asked what kind of dog he had. It was then I discovered he couldn't speak English. He offered his best effort - I think he was saying the dog was a mix - and we smiled and went our own ways. It felt good just to meet him.

And there was more - so much more - that was enriching on both a human and an artistic level.