My family and I watched the 1988 film “My Neighbor Totoro” — one of the most beloved stories from renowned Japanese animation studio, Studio Ghibli — for the first time this past weekend. We loved it.
“Totoro” tells the story of two young girls — Satsuki and Mei — who move with their professor father to an old, abandoned house in the Japanese countryside. They do so to be nearer to the hospital in which their mother is receiving treatment for a long-term illness.
Four-year-old Mei, the younger of the two, finds herself left to her own devices while her father works and her older sister attends school. Curious about the mysterious goings-on happening in her new home, she discovers a magical creature and follows it into the nearby forest. There, she finds more magical critters, ultimately stumbling upon the enormous cat-like, raccoon-bear-adjacent, Squishmallow-before-it-was-cool, titular being called Totoro.
Mei is delighted. But when she wakes up in a clearing in that same forest all alone — save for her sister and father who’d been frantically looking for her — she’s confronted with a terrible question: Was it all a dream?
This is where the story comes upon a crucial narrative juncture. Mei, naturally, is convinced of the fantastical encounter she’s just had. But her sister and father, standing there in a seemingly ordinary forest, have no evidence upon which to base these magical claims, save the utterings of a four-year-old. As the viewer, I’m wondering at this moment: Will a substantial amount of the remaining runtime be devoted to convincing the rest of the family that the forest is pulsing with magic?
There’s nothing wrong with a story that follows a true believer set on winning over those who doubt the proverbial magic all around. That’s why I expected at least some of the plot to be dedicated to Mei convincing her sister and father that Totoro was real — and could ultimately be helpful to the family.
But I was wrong. Mei’s father immediately believes his daughter; in fact, he not only affirms her mystical experience but leads the small family on a pilgrimage to offer gratitude to the forest spirits for their presence. Just like that, Mei’s own enchanted encounter is validated, and Satsuki eagerly sets about looking for one of her own — with her father’s implied blessing.
The world of “My Neighbor Totoro” — and that of many of Studio Ghibli’s most beloved films — is pulsing with enchantment. Characters assume the forests to be alive with spirits; they don’t need to be convinced that reality may be more than what is readily seen by the naked eye.
Now, of course, a story about spirits living in the woods is quite different than a faith that insists on a Triune God present in all things. And yet, I can’t help but think that this disposition — this readiness to encounter the spiritual alive and waiting at every turn — is quite helpful in our own journeys of faith. Certainly, entering a forest expecting to encounter God is a wonderful way of proceeding.
But what most struck me after having watched this film was that narrative choice, the one that said, “Yes, of course Mei’s encounter with spirit was true and worthy of belief.” That decision meant the plot could dive deeper into what those helpful spirits could do in the lives of our characters. The writers didn’t need to spend time convincing anyone of the spiritual reality dwelling in the forest; instead, characters could simply bask in it together. There was no second guessing of self or others; there was simply shared enjoyment and a deepening understanding of what these spirits meant for the characters’ lives.
I don’t want to overdo the lessons to be drawn here — or force them where they are not. But I’m left thinking about how that father immediately believed his daughter. How he affirmed her experience and then journeyed with her on pilgrimage to a sacred place where the whole family could pray together. He allowed her space to grow while also walking alongside her, offering advice, protection and companionship.
The question I’m left with is this: How often do we affirm one another’s experience of God? How often do we cast doubt and shadow on what God may be doing in the life of another? Rather than offer suspicion and judgment, what if we instead offered our hand — and the promise of shared pilgrimage? How much deeper might we descend into the life of God all around us if we spent less time doubting one another and more time journeying together?