Emily Rose, that's how it goes…the seasons come and the flowers grow…

Emily Rose and I lived on the same street. She wore the prim and proper blue, red and white plaid uniform of the Saint Theresa's Catholic School for Girls and I wore ragged bellbottoms with fuzzy peace signs plastered over the holes and peasant blouses.

Emily's mother, Clare, named after the Italian saint of Assisi, grew prize roses in their small garden while my mother, Rainbow, a carryover hippie from the Summer of Love, grew sprouts and tomatoes among weeds. It's hard to say why someone like Emily would even take notice of me, a scraggly tomboy with a boy's haircut, but perhaps she took me on as a project for salvation.

I recall one particular hot spring day that occurred towards the end of the school year, late May. The teachers at the public school where I attended allowed the students to wear shorts and T-shirts to class that day. Emily wasn't so fortunate, there she was sweltering in her long sleeve white button shirt and plaid wool skirt, not to mention those thick cotton tights.

Like a good martyr, she didn't complain as sweat dripped down her forehead while we walked to our separate schools. That was the day I asked her about Jesus. My mother had told me about another Mary, Magdalene, and how the Catholics wouldn't accept her as the bride of Christ. I wanted to put the theory to the test.

"Say, Emily, I heard that Christ was married."

Blood rushed to Emily's face and she grimaced. "Christ wasn't married! That's impossible! Who told you that?"

"My mother."

"Really, what does your mother know? She doesn't even attend church and neither do you."

I stare down at the hearts I painted on my white canvas tennis shoes. "My mother is into Jesus. She took me to see Jesus Christ Superstar and…"

Emily scoffs. "My mother wouldn't be caught dead…" She crosses herself, " I mean, my mother would never take me to see such blasphemy."

I could see that the conversation was heading to dangerous territory, so I changed the subject.

"Your mother's roses are looking quite splendid."

I copped an English accent for fun, but my humor which I learned from watching Monty Python's Flying Circus every weekend with my parents, was lost on poor Emily. She would probably find a quiet corner at her school so she could perform some kind of penance for listening to blasphemy about Jesus. I entertained myself with thoughts of the various types of punishment she would endure after I dropped her off at her proper school.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I adored Emily and secretly desired to be more like her. I needed discipline in my carefree life. I needed structure which my parents wouldn't provide since they believed in the freedom of every child to choose for her or himself. I was 12-going-on-13 and just learning about the magical world of being a woman. As my "moon time" approached, my mother took me to sweat lodges run by pseudo Native Americans, well, really just hippies with long braids who said they studied with this or that elder.

While my mother didn't believe that I needed structure, she did believe that I needed ritual in my life and some way to mark my rite of passage into womanhood. I wasn't exactly delicate, but I was a bit squeamish and having to sit through sex education with my parents was quite embarrassing, especially when they couldn't keep their hands off of one another.

I wonder what Emily would have thought of those lectures. How did the Catholic girls learn about making love when they didn't allow Jesus such a privilege, instead they stuck him up on some throne in heaven where he just sat there passing judgement on each of us. And Mary, the Mother of Jesus never did shed her virginity.

Personally, I thought the Jesus in the musicals and movies was super cool. I adored him in the way that other kids my age adored rock stars. Not that I hung posters of the crucified Jesus on my bedroom walls. I saw him as a flower child, you know, power to the people, peace and love and doves. I liked singing along with the songs from the musicals, "Jesus Christ, Super Star, who in the world do you think you are?" Who in the world did I think I was?

As the months wore on, Emily and I bonded in friendship. She put up with my mother, Rainbow and her scraggly garden as well as, tofu burgers and granola with yogurt that passed as snacks at my house. She put up with the fact that we didn't own a television nor did we want one and that my parents enjoyed fondling each other in front of prim children. She put up with my Beatles and Elton John records and even learned to sing the words to "Yellow Brick Road."

In fact, Emily had an amazingly lovely voice and she could sing both harmony and melody. Oh, how I envied her with her perfect golden long hair, her rosy skin and knowledge of her faith. If she had envied me, I never knew of it.

Her mother, Clare taught me various Franciscan prayers and also about Francis of Assisi, how he was a wealthy playboy that eventually became a saint. That was hard to imagine in the 1970's, even when young men dropped out of society in order to pursue a simpler lifestyle. I thought they were just lazy and avoiding adulthood myself.

"My dear, Francis was in his early 20's, when he found his Lord Jesus and he gave up his savage lifestyle to pursue an illuminated path."

"What does illuminated path mean?"

Clare shook her head gently and her curls jingled in the sunlight. "Illumination means light so his path was lit and he could find his way to our Lord Jesus Christ."

She crossed herself and then glanced lovingly in my eyes. "I will pray for your soul."

One day a year or so later, Emily and I were singing along to some Joni Mitchell records and I decided to get out my guitar. I had been taking lessons and wrote my first song. I decided to sing it for Emily. I sang in an alto voice which Rainbow compared to Carol King. I thought Emily would just laugh at me, but instead she began singing harmony in perfect and clear soprano.

After that day, she and I wrote songs with double meaning. I was singing about secular subjects like boys and she was singing about her love for Christ and the Virgin Mary. We both turned 14 during the summer of 1976, when Claremont, the small town where we resided decided to throw a hippie festival-bicentennial celebration, sort of a Canterbury fair slash barbecue slash show your patriotic red, white and blue.

Emily and I auditioned as a duet to perform on a youth stage. For whatever reason, perhaps to protect herself from sinning, Emily wore her Catholic girl school uniform. I wore a purple flowing skirt that my mother bought me for my rite of passage along with a gypsy white blouse and Navajo turquoise jewelry. I had grown my dark brown hair long and that day I wore my hair in braids.

I still envied Emily's gold tresses and she even looked cool in her short uniform skirt and white short sleeve blouse. She had grown looser since she had met me. As we were climbing up onto the stage, a young man, new to the neighborhood, sporting longish hair and a smile that could knock one dead, took a seat in the front row.

He was alone so he watched us get set up on the stage. I was so overwhelmed by his presence that I could barely tune my guitar. Emily seemed super cool, although I learned later she was fighting off a huge sexual attraction to our new foxy neighbor. She really could pull off that cold as steel attitude when deep down she was enduring the flames of desire or damnation, it's all a matter of perspective.

After we finished performing our set of 5 flowing songs, the new neighbor swaggered up to the stage to introduce himself.

"Hey, I'm Jimmy as in Hendrix and Page."

Emily blushed, "who are they?"

Jimmy laughed. "Rock stars, man."

"Oh. We're only into folk music."

I smiled to myself. "Speak for yourself, my dear."

We ended up attending a small barbecue with Jimmy. He scarf down five drumsticks and oily potato salad. Emily gingerly ate some fruit salad and picked at a hamburger someone brought to her. Ever since she entered her Franciscan phase, she detested meat. I too, stayed clear of any animal products having been brought up by two vegetarians who lectured me at every meal about the cruelty of raising animals for slaughter. Jimmy grinned at us in a condescending fashion.

"What, are you two vegetarians?"

"I'm afraid so."

He scoffed, "that's cool. I mean, a lot of rock singers have gone veggie these days. They say it's healthier and good for the earth. But me, I like meat and lots of it."

It turned out that Jimmy came from farm stock and his grandfather didn't grow potatoes as he liked to put it. Jimmy wore his hair long and listened to a lot of the same music as me, but deep down inside he was a good old country boy bent on one thing, getting laid before his 16th birthday and we were two prized innocence just rearing to be sacrificed to a sex god or so I thought.

We hung out with Jimmy when he would allow it. Although Emily and I were still best friends, a competitive spirit was developing between us. We tried our best to hide our feelings for Jimmy and both pretended we only wanted friendship with him while fire was stirring in the fruit of our wombs.

Another August rolled around and I decided to invite Jimmy to my 15th birthday celebration. Emily and I sang a few of our newest songs plus our favorite at that time, "Age of Aquarius." Rainbow and my papa, Mountain Mark were quite pleased with the songs, but Jimmy seemed to be stewing over something. His eyes would dart around our living room and other times, he seemed to be drinking in some deep reality or maybe he was just seeking a lair in which to snag Emily and I.

Later that evening, after my parents had left for an evening out on the town with their hippie friends, Jimmy and I decided to hit the sacrificial wine. Jimmy had brought a bottle he swiped from his parents to celebrate another of my rituals into womanhood in which Rainbow had grown quite fond.

At first Emily was acting prudish and wouldn't even take a sip of the wine. She seemed sullen while Jimmy and I took huge gulps of the wine always thanking the Lord. This also did not go down well with Emily who despite appearances, (she was wearing her hair down and sporting a very short mini skirt), took to religion like a sockeye salmon to the mighty Pacific Ocean. We were after all taking the Lord's name in vain, mi culpa, excuse me, I have sinned.

"Come on, Emily, lighten up. It's just a little wine."

She scowled at me. "And you're drunk and don't even know it. How disgraceful!"

Jimmy scoffed, "how old are you anyway? Do you always need to turn to Mother Superior for advice or are you allowed to have a good time?"

I looked around the room. "Well, I've news for you, Em, there's no mother superior in this room. But we have this delicious bottle of wine." I stare fondly at Jimmy, "and he might not be a Lord, but don't you think that he's foxy?"

Emily bolted and raced from the room, furious at us. I took the opportunity of being alone with Jimmy. I had never been kissed and my body felt like it a vestal fire just exchanging glances with Jimmy. I let my hair out of their braids and pulled my gypsy blouse down baring my shoulders to Jimmy.

He leaned forward and kissed me with his full mouth and tongue. Oh, how my body ascended into bliss. Next thing I knew Jimmy was on top of me caressing every part of me and his wine breath delighted me further.

Emily was aghast when she returned to the room seeing her friends undressing each other. She crossed herself a few times and gulped down some of the wine. She pulled out a flamenco record and placed it on the turntable then she started dancing seductively to everyone's surprise. She shot smoldering glances at Jimmy and resembled a toreador captivating a bull's attention. She swung her hips and licked her lips in anticipation of being deflowered.

Jimmy rolled off of me and approached Emily who he swooped in his arms and carried her to a bedroom in the back of the house, my room. I felt that my anger could and would destroy me, but I survived. However, my friendship with Emily died that day and would never be revived.

I shouted after them, "how disgraceful, a virgin sacrifice! Surely you'll be sullied!"

I slumped on the floor nursing the remainder of the wine while tears slipped down my face silently. Some birthday, I thought. I swore that I could hear the lovers upstairs panting, but it was probably just our old German shepherd, Ben sleeping on the couch. I did hear Emily yelp out in pain, but her cries only mirrored my own suffering as my two friends betrayed me.

A few months later, a nosy neighbor had mentioned to my mother that Emily was sent to a convent for the Poor Clares at her own request. She had contracted a venereal disease from Jimmy and took that as a sign from God that she needed to repent for her sins. So just like that she disappeared from my life and now I was a solo act instead of a duet.

And I guess I should have been thankful that Jimmy had done the deed with Emily instead of me, but I just felt mortified. I wondered if kids dropped out of society to avoid such pain, but I stayed the course and did what was expected of me like the dutiful Catholic girl I was not. Emily Rose and I, Anne Jacobs, had officially exchanged places or so it seemed.

Jimmy dropped out of school and moved to San Francisco where he joined an acid rock band. I didn't care. I felt too numb to care.

I concentrated on writing songs, I took dance classes, I got to know Saint Francis of Assisi who forgave me for my transgressions. Eventually, I graduated from high school and attended a music conservatory.

After I graduated, I joined up with a new writing partner, Marty Reingold. Then he and I signed our first record deal under the moniker, Emily Rose. I hadn't forgotten Emily and I didn't want to. Our first single was called, "Emily Rose--That's How it Goes." It climbed the charts and even the mailman hummed it.

I wonder if Emily ever heard my song. Do the Poor Clares listen to folk music? Did Emily remember me when she traveled around the country advocating sex education and woman empowerment classes in the Catholic schools? Did she ever sing our old tunes in private when no one but God and The Virgin were watching her?

She might not remember me or care, but I have searched endlessly for information regarding her vocation on the Internet. I learned that she became the Head Abbess at a convent in Spokane, Washington, that she lectured about family planning around the world and that she finally accepted Mary Magdalene as the Bride of Christ. I'm certainly not aware if I had anything to do with her conversion.

A long time ago, we sat on my lawn watching the sun set and pondering the existence of God. Emily turned to me with the sun shining like gold lanterns in her metallic blue eyes.

"Why do you think Jesus would have married a prostitute?"

I grabbed Emily's arm gently. "But don't you see, she wasn't a prostitute?"

Emily picked a daisy that was growing among the grass and she smiled with enchantment.

"Father Paul and the sisters tell us that Magdalene was a loose woman and that she wept because of her sins. That's why Jesus took pity on her, but he would have never married such a woman or any woman."

"Why not? What's so wrong with Jesus getting married?"

"He was serving God!"

"So you're saying that married people can't serve God?"

"They would be too obsessed with one another to put God first."

I laughed. "So then, your parents are too obsessed with themselves to serve God?"

I asked this question because both her parents were overly devoted to the church and to the point where they didn't even know the other existed any longer."

"Well, my parents aren't a good example."

"Really?"

"They're the exception to the rule."

"And my parents who adore each other would turn Jesus off?"

"No, because Jesus would forgive them."

"For what? For spreading love in the world? For having a family and enjoying Mother Earth?"

Emily didn't respond to my question. She glanced at me with a knowing look and then counted down the last few seconds before the sun sunk below the western horizon.

Years later through her own painful experiences she would learn that religion is not a cut and dry situation. She tossed out dogma and grew into a real person who saw the world through an earthy gaze. She saw and felt the pain of young woman caught up in hormonal dramas. She felt the injustices done to young woman in the name of religion and fought to bring peace and harmony to their lives. And so, tirelessly for 30 years, Emily forged ahead on a mission with a purpose.

I also had a purpose to further women in the music industry. To bring love and joy to others' lives through my songs. Well, Emily, that's how it went and that's how it goes. We gave more to life than it could ever return to us, but that's okay, that has to be okay…. I can feel Emily nodding her head in silence as she ponders the marriage between the Divine Feminine and the Divine Masculine. If only the rest of the world would catch on…

c 2006 P.L Herlevi
Do not reprint without authorization from Patricia Herlevi