Deborah Lipp

It’s possible that it’s unforgivably dorky to comment on the McCartney-Mills breakup, but I venture forward unafraid.

There is no way that 90% of the adult population of the U.S., and Great Britain, and most of Europe, didn’t see this coming. Rich man. Disreputable woman. Old enough to be her father. She feuds with the children of the previous marriage. He’s on the rebound. I mean, DUH.

But.

By all accounts, Paul and Linda McCartney had a wonderful marriage for nearly thirty years. They were in love. They shared values. They created a life based on mutual understanding, goals, and visions. They worked and played together. I’ve never read anything but that these were kind and decent and good and loving people. There are no family feuds. They stood together through Linda’s cancer. The children adore the parents, there are no tell-all books.

And then Linda dies.

Paul is brave, dignified, sweet, sad, gentle, and a little lost. All of this is in the public eye, because, y’know, Paul McCartney.

Four years later, he remarries. And all that noise. She’s this she’s that it’s wrong it ain’t right. Noise. The guy has lost his wife, lost the love of his life, and why isn’t that in the equation? Why isn’t there gentleness towards a gentle man? Why isn’t there hope that, as outlandish as it seems, the thing will work?

Cuz this is so familiar. This smells like my own family and friends. I mean, except for the fabulous wealth, world fame, and amputation, it’s familiar.

Because this is what people do. Deride the possibilites. Whisper behind their hands at the wedding. Sneer. And it always aggrieves me. I always want to be on the side of hope.

Love has value. The possibility of the next thing being better than the last thing has value. Optimism and renewal have value. And sometimes, we should keep our traps shut.

You know what I hope? I hope Sir Paul finds someone who makes him really happy. I hope that.