My name is Kate DanSyng, and this is my home page.

I've been trying to decide what to put on a home page, and decided this was a good place to start. Below you will find a little intro to my suite and what and who I am.

But the path is overgrown now. All the little branches that were broken off by the passage of this single person have been replaced by others. All the grasses and weeds that were trampled underfoot, have healed, stood up, and grown tall. This footpath hasn't been walked in a very long time.

If you were to follow this footpath from the boulder, downwards, you would discover, in a sheltered glen about half way down a cabin. Worn from years of standing in that glen, shelter from the elements, happy home, hide away, and love nest. But forlorn looking now, from neglect and lack of use. You approach from the back. The porch sags, just a bit, and a couple of the stairs squeak when stepped on.

Walking in the weeds you circle to the front of the cabin, looking at the outside, noting the porch travels all 4 sides, and is quite deep. There, by the front door are flower pots, testimony to some loving hands who lived here once. An old fashioned porch swing is mounted there on the other side of the door, as if awaiting a certain person, who might like to spend a lazy afternoon reading in the coolness of the shadows the porch provides. Or perhaps, enjoying the elements during a thunder storm, sitting there, swinging, and enjoying the grandeur of God's handiwork.

You climb the front stairs and reach for the screen door ... you open it and notice a plaque mounted at about eye level on the front door. With the cuff of your shirt, you wipe the dust and debris from the plaque and read, but you can't quite make out the words ... the only one that is legible is the last one that says "Cabin."

You try the door and discover that with a little nudging you can open it and gain entrance to the cabin itself. The sun is shining in through dust laden west windows, but you can still see quite well. Aside from the signs of non occupance the cabin looks quite nice. There is a large livingroom just to the right, a long hallway directly in front of you, and to the left an old fashioned parlor or dining room.

The livingroom has a large, overstuffed chair and a sectional sofa that almost fill it, and on the floor are colorful hand braided rag rugs in bright colors that match the curtains at the windows. The hardwood floors look as if they could shine with a quick sweep and wet mop. The fireplace has logs laid out, just waiting for a match to burst into heart-warming flame. Oil lamps sit on the mantle and the two tables in the room, their wicks trimmed, oil glistening in their glass reservoirs, their chimneys sparkling ... just awaiting flame to spring to life as well. Someone has obviously made this cabin ready and then not come back to it.

You turn and enter the parlor. Against the outside wall is a huge, floor to ceiling bookcase, filled with all kinds of books. On the wall directly opposite you, which would be the east or morning wall are tall windows, with heavy drapery, ready to be closed against a winter's cold burst of wind, or flung wide open to welcome a warm morning spent reading. On the wall to your right is another large fireplace with a brass screen and tall tools mounted on hooks beside the hearth. On each side of the fireplace are passage ways to the next room, and when you look closely, you see that the fireplace opens there as well. Then, nestled against the same wall the door is in is a small secretary. Rosewood, polished to a shine, and brass findings, a beautiful piece of furniture, with a matching chair. Obviously a woman's desk as everything about it is very feminine, including the desk pad on top which bespeaks flowers and lavendar paper.

But it is the bookcase that catches your attention, and you walk over in front of it and begin to read the titles. They read like the reference section in a good library, with all manner of computer books, a good set of encyclopedias, several dictionaries, and, there, bound in leather, with a brass clasp is a book, the spine lovingly lettered "The Cabin". ... This is what you were looking for, and you take it down and return to the livingroom.

Reaching into your pocket you take out a lighter and light the oil lamps on the table beside the sofa. You also decide that since it is a cool afternoon outside, a fire would be nice, so you light that as well after assuring yourself that the flue is open and the chimney will draw well. Warmth and light assured you get comfy on the sofa, pull the volume into your lap, and begin to read.

The stories told in this volume span some 18 months, and tell the saga of a man and a woman building this cabin as a place of refuge. You read of the solace they take in one another's presence inside this cabin, of their growing to know each other's thoughts, and hearts. You read of them growing to know each others touch, and finally of the two of them forming a relationship, strong enough to carry them both out...away from this cabin and back into the world.

Now you understand why the cabin is neglected, and forlorn. Built as a refuge for hurting and loving souls, it is no longer needed or used, and has been abandoned for Castles and skyscrapers. This quiet little spot, in the woods, with it's clean air, and quiet nights, mourning doves, and mocking birds is standing, unused. As you read the words on the final page you know what must be done.

You take your handkerchief from your pocket, wet it in the sink, and go to the plaque on the door, and wipe it clean and buff it with the other sleeve.

As the sun slants across the porch it strikes the polished brass and you read the words: