The heart hungers for a home, well, mine does. 

Inside the unspoken understanding among family members, the smell of that dish cooking and those particular instruments playing those particular chords resides the usher to our pasts and our current sense of belonging. You know it when you feel it, and you delight in the fact that you can’t describe it.
I came to know the pertinence of this sensation the more distant “my people” became. It's a longing that I forget exists until I am among the elements of my culture. When it’s stirred, it is all consuming - as though I want the world to know about this most precious and private DNA. 

Sometimes I feel the need to quiet the otherworldliness of my history,  and other times feel compelled to use it as a shield, my motive for being. All the while, whether dormant or active, the sensations of home can take on their full glory in the blink of an eye.
While you may never understand the embodied hand gestures, the odd grunts nor the oddball logic that moves an idea around my brain, you will always be welcome at any table I set.

This is (MC)2.

It is an opportunity to witness and celebrate otherworldliness in its pristine and gritty glory. 
It is an opportunity for varied cultures to temporarily build their unique and beautiful homes on the same street.
It is a chance to join hands, sit at the table and bathe in the intimate and personal stories that define many people from many places.

Join hands with us,
George Staib