Is it okay to leave a legend?

We made a pilgrimage last night. Not a casual outing. A pilgrimage. To Emens Auditorium in Muncie to see the one, the only, the myth, the marble bust of American songwriting himself—Bob Dylan.

A legend.

A king.

A man whose lyrics have been studied, dissected, and probably used to justify at least three questionable life decisions per generation.

So naturally, we climbed to our seats.

And by “climbed,” I mean we embarked on what can only be described as a mild altitude expedition to the upper balcony, next to last row. Not quite the worst seats in the house—that honor belonged to the poor souls behind us, who I assume were issued oxygen masks and a Sherpa.

Now, before the show even began, we were introduced to The System.

The phones. Oh, the phones.

Locked. Sealed. Entrapped in little gray pouches like misbehaving toddlers at a very exclusive daycare. No photos. No videos. No evidence. Which, in hindsight, felt less like artistic integrity and more like a thoughtful courtesy. Because from where we were sitting, if we had taken a photo, it would have looked like a blurry crime scene from 1974.

Then the lights dimmed.

Or… further dimmed.

Because to say the stage was “lit” would be generous. There were four tall, mysterious sticks in the back—each topped with what appeared to be a softly glowing decorative bulb. Think “haunted IKEA floor lamps.”

The performers emerged.

Shadow figures. Vague silhouettes. A bass player somewhere to the left, theoretically. Two humans on the right who might have been a guitarist and a drummer—or possibly coat racks. One drummer who was partially visible, like the moon during a polite eclipse.

And center stage “ish” pushed closer to the back of the stage than the audience side..

A man.

Unlit. Unbothered. Unidentified.

I leaned over and whispered to my husband,

“Is that him?”

He paused. Squinted. Listened.

“I mean… I don’t know who else mumbles like that.”

Ladies and gentlemen, we had found him.

The legend.

The voice of a generation.

Now, here’s the part where I confess something deeply human: I came for the songs. The ones etched into the bones of American culture. The ones you recognize within three seconds.

You know… these:

• “Blowin’ in the Wind”
• “Like a Rolling Stone”
• “The Times They Are A-Changin’”
• “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”
• “Mr. Tambourine Man”
• “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right”
• “Subterranean Homesick Blues”
• “Simple Twist of Fate”
• “Forever Young”
• “All Along the Watchtower”

Did we hear any of those?

Not one.

Not a single rebellious gust of wind. Not a rolling stone. Not even a polite tambourine.

Instead, we were treated to selections—apparently—from his 2020 album Rough and Rowdy Ways. A title which, I now realize, was less a suggestion and more of a warning.

Now look—he’s 83 years old. Eighty-three. That alone deserves reverence. Respect. A standing ovation just for showing up and remembering where the stage is.

But an hour and a half in, sitting in the atmospheric conditions of a dimly lit submarine, listening to a man we could not see clearly and could not understand audibly, I found myself asking a question I never thought I’d ask at a Bob Dylan concert:

“Are we… allowed to leave a legend?”

Because leaving felt wrong.

Deeply, morally wrong.

This is a man who shaped music. Culture. Protest. Poetry. Entire identities.

You don’t just walk out on that.

And yet.

It was hot.

We couldn’t see.

We didn’t know what he was singing.

And the balcony air was beginning to feel… philosophical.

So we did what any respectful, slightly overheated, mildly confused admirers of greatness would do:

We left early.

Quietly. Humbly. Apologetically. Like people exiting a museum exhibit they didn’t quite understand but felt was important.

And here’s the truth I landed on somewhere between the top row and the parking lot:

Bob Dylan is still a legend.

Still a king.

Still untouchable in the grand, sweeping narrative of music history.

But last night?

Last night was not about us.

It was about him.

In the shadows.

With his glowing sticks.

Mumbling magnificently into the void.

Long reign the king.

From a safe distance.

Julie Bolejack, MBA

The Mindful Activist

P.S. When we left the building, what did we see? A full moon, it all makes sense now 😀