Meditation, Inner Sanctuary, and the Root of Letting Go

Hi, I'm Matt Raynor. I was a deep sea commercial fisherman until a diving accident turned my life upside down. At 29, I was forced to grieve everything I once loved—and in the process, I completely fell apart.

But difficulty shapes character. It forges integrity. Through my struggles, I've become stronger and more grounded. I was forced to find sobriety, spirituality, and persistence. The discipline I've developed through Buddhism and Taoism has given me a path forward.

From rock bottom—living in a nursing home, paralyzed from the collarbone down—I've plotted my course out. I taught myself full-stack web development. I created a photography book: a visual memoir of resilience. And most importantly, I've learned to trade the noise created by inner narratives for quiet contemplative service to myself and others.

I often meditate two to three times a day for long periods. It keeps me healthy and productive—and it gets me out of my own head.

Lately, I've been doing a meditation that brings me back to center in a profound way. After chanting and settling my breath, I close my eyes and imagine my consciousness falling from the sky—like a giant getting smaller and smaller—until I land gently in a sacred place within me.

I describe this out loud to myself. There's power in that—putting your thoughts into words, speaking them, creating the intention for the manifestation to follow.

It's always the same place: a vibrant field of wildflowers with snow-capped mountains in the background. A cool, clear stream flows down from those peaks, weaving through rocks—steady, unrelenting, always moving forward with gravity and grace toward the sea. That stream is my life force: clean, present, overcoming everything in its path.

Near the field stands a cedar forest. The air is fresh with pine scent. Fallen needles create a soft yellow mat where deer walk calmly. Sunlight breaks through the canopy, illuminating mushrooms and moss growing on a decaying tree.

At the center of it all stands my home: a Japanese-style pagoda. My inner temple. My subconscious sanctuary. It's my refuge—unshakable and spiritual, unchanged by external forces. Inside, my deeper self moves with quiet purpose, cleaning and caring, keeping things in order. My inner being prepares the space for me to rest, showing love not with words but through devotion.

At the top of the pagoda is a lighthouse-shaped meditation room where my light lives—my intentions, prayers, mantras. This is where I chant, where I speak affirmations and create direction without grasping. Intention without desire. From this high place, I see the forest, the stream, the ocean. Around the pagoda are gardens: wildflowers, vegetables, the smell of tomatoes in the sun, and the salty breeze rolling in from the cliffs.

Today in this inner world, I walked to my garden and dug up the root of something old—a dead tree. It was the remains of a long-held desire, something that once helped me grow but has become painful and no longer serves me. I thanked it for what it taught me, then dragged it to the cliff's edge and let the ocean take it.

Where that heavy root once lived, I filled the space with fresh, rich soil. I planted a new seed—a symbol of the kind of love and connection I want to grow now: mutual, healthy, grounded in respect, reciprocity, and truth.

Every time I get swept up in waves of desire or expectation, I imagine myself digging up this stump. In doing so, I train myself to fill in the grooves I've carved from old pattern thinking. Healing doesn't come overnight, but it does come with practice.

This meditation helps me let go. It helps me compost old patterns and tend to what matters. I'm going to return here often—because this place is mine. And because I want to live from here: grounded, peaceful, open, and present.