Who knows? ¡Quien Sabe? What magnetisms, polarities, orientations, attractions, blood memories bring us to where we are. We are not the great deciders we like to think we are.

And yet - all I know - is that it is good to be back in Mexico.

It has been six years since I've been here. I have been toiling in the vineyards. I have been dancing with the Tao. And then I was given the freedom to move about this world, again. And then, because I could, I went to Mexico and hung out with the Monarch Butterflies.

In Austin, Tx. I bought a ticket for Monterrey, Mexico. I crossed the border, got on another bus, and fell into a deep sleep.

When I awoke Monterrey had come and gone. It was far away in the dark, moonless night. I looked at the stars, and all I knew was the bus was going south.

I awoke in early morning light to find myself in the city of Queretaro, about three hous from my first destination, Morelia.

I pretended - it wasn't hard - that I was a retarded gringo. I was asked to pay the full fare. And yet, the driver was a kind man who had a place in his heart for old, retarded, pinche, cabron gringos.

He let me walk.

I bought a ticket for Morelia and moved through a strangely familiar land of volcanos, ancient cities, flowering trees, riotous color.

In Morelia I immediately bought a ticket for Zitcauro another three hours away deep in the Western Central Highlands. I spent the night in Zitcauro, a lively, noisy, crowded place.

Next morning I was packed among the people in a small van, which served as public transportation. I had to sit on the floor in a twisted, uncomfortable way.

I got out of the van at the Michocoan - State of Mexico border, and began to walk. And then with an audible pop and a rush of pain, I blew out my left knee. And that was the way I hobbled into the magical reality of Macheros, a short taxi ride later.

Macheros has about 350 souls and is an access place to the Cerro Pelon Monarch Reserve. It is a story book beautiful pueblo at the foot of the about 10,000 foot mountain. On top of the mountain is a primeval, or at least completely restored forest of Oyamil Fir Trees. These trees are draped with millions and millions of Monarchs from October to March.

The Monarchs arrive around The Day of the Dead, November 2. The indigenas people, the Mazahua, knew the Monarchs were the souls of the dead returning, as do the modern Mexicans.

Behold the Monarch Mariposa.

The greater part of its population in North America migrates as much as 3,500 miles in a frail, delicate body, and nobody quite knows how or why.

In February, as the highlands warm, the Monarchs, who have suppressed their sexuality all the fall and winter, let their sexuality explode. They fly in great clouds of sexual excitement.

Around March seventh the pregnant females begin to head South for Texas and Oklahoma. They lay their eggs that become caterpillars. The caterpillars shed their skin four times. The fourth skin is the cocoon that becomes the skin of the mariposa.

The first three generation move north. The fourth generation is the total magical reality generation. Born from eggs laid around the Great Lakes, and the Northeastern United States, starting in the middle of August, the young mariposa rise high in the sky on columns of warm air and the high altitude winds begin to blow them south.

Who Knows - Quien Sabe - What magnetisms, polarities, orientations, attractions, blood memories bring them to drape the same tree their ancestors did.

Much of the magical reality of Macheros is about the magic of the mariposa. Most of the pueblo's activity is about planting trees and accomodating and guiding tourists to the mariposa.

Next day my knee was still blown out. I had to ride an old horse named Bolomo. Bolomo had been up and down the mountain too many times. He didn't care anymore. When he stumbled and almost fell off the mountain the second time I dismounted.

And then I was in a cloud of copulating Monarchs.

In the cloud of copulating Monarchs I pondered my voyage to where I was.

It was only my third day in Mexico and I was understanding the conversation around me. When I spoke, the Spanish just came. All was strangely familar.

And just as the Mexicans know the mariposa are the souls of their returning dead - I knew I was here before.