Let your lives speak

A dull grey day today hereabouts.
We made the most of a brighter start by giving pooch a quick six miles round the lanes, but by the time we were getting home the drizzle had started.
I had some errands in town to do, and on the drive home I decided to just take every tiny lane and turn that was roughly heading east and homewards. Even after fifteen years in these parts I was soon in new places, on single track lanes with grass in the middle, having a blast. I'd thought I'd grab a buzzard on a fence or maybe a sorrowful cow, but eventually my twisting way brought me, unexpectedly, to Fox's Pulpit. I've only ever been here once before, and that was in the midst of an eighteen mile run, but now as then I found it strangely haunting and peaceful.
It was here in 1652 that George Fox spoke to a crowd of nearing a thousand folk, and the Quakers or (much nicer) Society of Friends were formed.
Now religion and I aren't really on speaking terms, but equally faith is important to me, even if mine is in my fellow man - and the simple premise, that God can be found within seems as close to an answer as any I've encountered, so Quakers (a name taken in the face of persecution) command more of my attention than many.
However what struck me then, as it did today, wasn't the pulpit rocks themselves, but the adjacent walled space where once a church or meeting house stood, where once I would guess others were buried, but now just this solitary headstone remains. It's a lovely spot, imagined without the M6 for a neighbour, I can see why it is somewhere that eyes could cast to the heavens, surrounded in all of nature's glory and look for answers. Thronged with a thousand people looking for hope perhaps the answers were there to be found. It seemed right to sit a while and ponder.