Postcard Club Story Behind the Art: Liminal Eyes | Meow Wolf
- Jess Lackey
- Dec 31
- 4 min read
Updated: Jun 25
There’s an inner stillness we get sometimes, at the most poignant of moments. A calmness that’s hard to explain. A feeling of being so utterly connected. An undeniable and deep internal knowing. Time stops momentarily. The clarity and calm of the moment is palpable. Like the first time we remember to breathe. All at once; connectedness. Relief. Belonging. And at the same time, nothing.
Bliss.
For me, this moment is usually fleeting. As soon as it enters my core, my brain realizes what’s happening and tries to grasp at it. To tie it up, hold it by force, to never let it go. Sometimes in these moments, I get downloads; thoughts that aren’t quite my own, yet not anyone else's. Epiphanies. Messages that speak to things much bigger than myself. Sometimes I can ask questions, and sometimes, I get quick and direct answers.
At the time that I took this photo, I was experiencing one of these moments. A gentle flutter of utter connection. The photo was my brain’s way of trying to tether the intangible, to keep it in my pocket and my heart, to never let it go.
A little more than two weeks before this, my whole world had shifted. Every plan, every vision of the future I had, turned in on itself. Two weeks prior to this, I lost my dog Raven. My soul companion for over eight years was gone. Unexpectedly.
The plans Raven and I had made were very well underway. Buy an RV, check. Renovate it, check. Travel around, go on adventures, check. Make our way back to Colorado, check! We had planned to be in Colorado indefinitely. It was August and the mountain air felt different than it had before, and yet, we pressed on. Now I realize it was a sign. We were not coming back to Colorado to live. We were coming back to say goodbye.
What I didn’t anticipate was how much where we had been would impact where we were going. The hot, relentless summers of the Midwest, where we had spent the last nine months, were hard on Raven’s already fragile body.
She had lost her front right leg to cancer the year before. A tripod with an attitude and willpower that would put most humans to shame. But the heat drained her. She tired too quickly, moved more slowly, and eventually lost interest in going outside. A few short weeks of limited movement is all it took for pneumonia to quietly set in.
The day before she passed, I took her to her favorite park in Colorado at sunset. She ran, tunnel-visioned, toward the little lake and instantly jumped in with all three paws. I watched as the ripples of water scattered in large rings around her, vibrating to the edges of the shore. She looked back at me, as if to say, “Ah yes, this is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for.”
12 hours later, she was gone.
For a year I pictured what life would be like without her. Even before then, really. It was a tiny nightmare that always played in the background of my mind. For a year, we had endured oncology appointments, an amputation, chemotherapy and regular chest X-rays. She had made, essentially, a full recovery, minus the fact, I was warned, that no dogs ever fully remiss from this type of cancer. Even so, for all intents and purposes, from my eyes, Raven was in remission. And we were in Colorado, back to where I promised her she could be a mountain dog again. Where I had whispered in her ears to pray really hard and we would make it happen. And she did. And we did. But when she left, so did my desire to be there. Losing her was not part of the plan. And so, the plan changed.
I drove the RV down to New Mexico to take the southern route back to the Midwest, years ahead of schedule. I picked my mom up in Albuquerque, and we stayed in Sante Fe. While there, we visited Meow Wolf, an overwhelming labyrinth of immersive art that set my inner child on fire. For a couple of hours, I didn’t think about Raven.
But then, as we walked along a second-story catwalk lined with illuminated flora, the sinking weight of her absence hit me. I wanted to kick and scream and run out, run away from the reality that was life without Raven. But I didn’t. Instead I took my mom’s picture in a treehouse and I fought back the tears and the movie screen flashes of memories and regrets that flooded my internal vision. Half in my body, half out.
I found a little dark dome and ducked inside. The floor was cushioned by mossy pillows of yarn. I was all alone. It was the perfect hole to bury myself and cry.
As tears fell from my eyes, and my body prepared for a full on meltdown, something else pushed through. A knowing. A calm wash. A stillness. My tears immediately dried. There was no need to cry. There was no need to spiral in regrets. Raven’s passing had been so surreal because even though she was gone, it hadn’t felt like she ever left. And in that moment, she confirmed that she hadn’t.
Liminal Eyes is available in a postcard and fine art print.
A moment suspended between worlds.
This piece captures the essence of transition, loss, and quiet reflection—an exploration of liminal spaces where what was still echoes in what remains. Taken on 35mm film at Meow Wolf in Santa Fe, NM, this image invites you to step into the blurred reality of spaces in between.
Themes:
Transformation
Nostalgia
Connection to Place
The Passage of Time
Letting Go
The rich tones and soft texture of this piece make it perfect for framing, collecting, or gifting to someone who understands the beauty in in-between moments.
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