THE KEEPER OF THE LORICAS
We often share our shamanic journey experiences when in circle. I've also found it's appreciated when I share the notes I take on my journeys with others So this series will document journeys I've experienced in the past. All these journeys will be found the the SHAMANISM PAGE. This journey was taken in April 2000.
All the great Irish saints had their Lorica; a song or verse that could be recited as a prayer to 
https://www.learnreligions.com/the-breastplate-of-saint-patrick-542668
protect from, harm, either physical, emotional or spiritual. Sometimes, the verse is also called the 'breastplate' as in this, the breastplate of St Patrick.
Sometimes called a Caim, a word with a Scottish root meaning loop, the Lorica or Caim conjures an image of a sanctuary. It is created when in fear, danger or distress, by using one's hand to form a circle around oneself, while reciting the verse.
The St. Columbain Caim goes thus:
Be to me a bright flame before me
Be to me a guiding star above me,
Be to me a smooth path below me,
Be to me a kind shepherd behind me,
Today, tonight, and forever.
At a Shamanic Gathering, we we all asked to journey to find ourselves a Lorica,
I began, as always in my home circle, the stream running to the south, the waist-high stone in the middle of it, the yews and oaks all around. I walked east, through a thicket of hazel, and quite quickly came to a wide lake. There was a concrete causeway stretching out onto it. As I climbed up onto it, a naked man barred my way – he looked rather like 'The Thinker'.
"I seek a Lorica," I told him.
He stepped out of my way, and I found I was in a room, or rather a hut, as there were outdoor windows in each wall. On a chair were four red rods, each about a foot long. They slipped away from me as I reached for them, disappearing from the room, but I intercepted each one, and held them strong. Each was different, but each held a power, I could feel it through my grasp.
I knew my Lorica would start with the word 'Power', and that each rod would be a verse. I sat down on the chair and held each one in my hands individually.
After some time, I started to 'get' my Lorica. I had to hold tightly onto it, by clutching the rods. I needed to get to my home circe and return to the apparent world so I could write it down. Outside the hut, it was thick woodland. In the distance, I saw a bridge, and made for it. The Thinker appeared again, his face blocking my entire vision.
"I need payment for you to cross."
I only had my rods. I looked at them. One was a jewel-encrusted rod, the thickness of a baby's arm. The next had a 'beaked' end. The third was shorter, and shaped like a bare bone. The fourth seemed to be a branch of eucalyptus, it's bark peeling away. I handed the man the fourth branch.
"I need payment on paper."
I didn't understand him, but he stripped the thin bark from the rod and handed it back; now it was fully striped and beautifully white.
I hid my rods in my hazel thicket, and sat on my central rock, until the call-back signal came, allowing the Lorica to form in my mind.
When I returned to the group, I wrote it down:
sap rising
no mountain is too tall
POWER in our summer days
resting after labours
we hear the children play
POWER in our autumn
the land ripe and golden
ready for the harvest
POWER in depths of our winter
for only when the earth is cold and bare
can we detect the small, green shoots of spring.
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