When your heart feels weary, don’t you just want to see Totoro?

Source: Free images released by Studio Ghibli

Suddenly, but when do you feel like watching My Neighbor Totoro?

When your heart feels a little weary. When you suddenly realize your breathing has grown shallow from being chased by work and household chores. When you want to escape just a little from your hectic daily life. Or on a night when the rain falls quietly, with a warm drink in hand, when you simply wish to feel safe.

I wonder why. Even though it’s been decades since its release in 1988. The story of Satsuki and Mei, and those mysterious creatures, continues to stay close to our hearts like a fine blanket, never fading.

Countless wonderful stories and charming characters are born into this world, only to vanish in the blink of an eye. So why is it that only Totoro endures, cherished across generations like a shared “hometown”?

“Because it’s cute,” “Because it’s nostalgic.” Of course, those are major reasons. But doesn’t the charm we feel for Totoro seem impossible to fully explain with just words like “cuteness” or “nostalgia”?

It’s almost like something very precious and warm — a kind of “memory” — that we might have gently left behind somewhere in the process of growing up and becoming wiser.

Even as digitalization advances and we should be able to stay connected to someone all day long, we sometimes suddenly feel an intense loneliness. Perhaps it’s precisely because of this slightly complicated modern world that we unconsciously crave something like what Totoro symbolizes.

Today, I want to explore why we’re so drawn to Totoro. Rather than just telling you the secret, I’d like us to think together about how you feel about it.

If you’d like, could you join me for a little while in this conversation, picturing the “Totoro” that lives in your own heart?

“I just want to touch it!” I find myself thinking, without any rational thought.

When we first encounter Totoro (through the movie screen, mind you), what’s the very first impulse we feel? Isn’t it that deeply instinctive desire to “touch it!”?

Source: Free images released by Studio Ghibli

Let’s recall just a bit more vividly the scene in the story where Mei first meets Totoro. Led deeper and deeper into the forest, Mei falls into the hollow of a huge camphor tree. What she sees there is a gigantic, gray, furry creature.

What if — just imagine — we adults had been there at that very moment? What would our first thoughts be? “Danger!” “We have to run!” “What is this thing?” “A bear? No, but…” That sense of caution and reason would surely take hold first. Maybe we’d even frantically pull out our smartphones, trying to analyze that strange creature by taking pictures first.

But Mei was different! After a moment of surprise, she dived without hesitation into that big belly. And right there on that fluffy belly, she began to breathe deeply and sound incredibly comfortable.

Every time we see that scene, don’t we just instinctively think, “Ahh, I want to dive into that belly too!”? (I do, every single time!)

Totoro’s fur. It doesn’t feel like the coarse fur of a beast, but rather evokes the absolute softness of a high-quality carpet soaked in sunlight, or the downy fur of a newborn animal. It has a density that repels raindrops, yet feels like you could sink your fingers into it endlessly — a sense of embrace.

It seems we humans are instinctively wired to feel reassured when touching something soft. Like how a baby feels safe touching its mother’s skin. Like how stroking a dog or cat, feeling their warmth and that “thump-thump” heartbeat, soothes our frayed nerves. Or like how, on a truly exhausting night, wrapping yourself in a soft down comforter makes your tense heart gently melt away.

This sense of security brought by “touch” is deeply primal and powerful.

When you think about it, modern life means we spend overwhelmingly more time touching the hard, cold glass and plastic of smartphones and computers. In exchange for convenience, we may be unknowingly losing opportunities to touch “warm things,” “soft things.” Touching soil. Feeling the bark of a tree. Gently touching someone’s hand.

That’s precisely why Totoro’s irresistibly soft fur speaks to us more powerfully than any eloquent words could: “You’re safe here,” “There’s nothing to worry about.”

In our stressful modern society, we unconsciously seek that “absolute sense of security” and “warmth.” Couldn’t that ideal be symbolized by that “fluffy” fur?

What do you think? Can you remember the last time you truly felt at ease touching something “warm” or “soft”?

That smile of Totoro’s, accepting everything

When discussing Totoro’s charm, you absolutely cannot leave out that “smile”!

That unique smile, baring his teeth and opening his mouth wide in a big “grin.” If you think about it calmly, it’s definitely not the grammar of a human “smile,” right? If anything, it should be closer to an animal’s threatening expression.

Yet, why does seeing that smile make us feel so drawn to it, to the point of feeling a “pang,” and why does it make us feel so reassured?

Totoro smiles. When Mei falls asleep on his belly, he looks somehow pleased. When Satsuki and Mei sing their (slightly strange) thank-you song for the acorns, he looks pleased. And at the bus stop, when raindrops hit the umbrella Satsuki offers him, making a “clatter!” and “plop-plop!” sound, he rejoices as if he’s found the most fascinating thing in the world!

Source: Free images released by Studio Ghibli

That smile has absolutely no “hidden agenda.” There exists none of the calculation found in human society — “wanting to be seen a certain way” — nor any forced, polite smiles born of consideration.

It’s simply an explosion of pure joy, accepting what is there and declaring this very moment “Fun!” “Happy!” It overflows with a wholehearted “I love this!” like a young child discovering something they adore.

How many “complicated” smiles do we live with every day? Smiles to reassure others. Smiles to hide our true feelings. Smiles to smooth things over. Smiles we put on because it’s part of the job. Sometimes, even defensive smiles to hide our own hurt.

Of course, these are necessary “skills” for navigating society and important expressions of “consideration.” But deep down, don’t we all yearn to share pure “joy,” unburdened by such complexity?

Totoro’s smile seems to say: “Just having you here makes me happy!” “I’ll embrace everything you give me with my whole being!”

He accepts the acorn bundle Satsuki and Mei bring without a hint of doubt. He revels in the sound of the umbrella Satsuki offers, enjoying it with his whole being. There is no expectation of “something in return.”

No matter how anxious Satsuki and Mei feel, no matter how childishly selfish they act, Totoro just smiles broadly and accepts them. He doesn’t evaluate or judge.

That smile might be the ultimate “smile of acceptance,” affirming our very existence just as we are, saying “That’s perfectly fine!”

Haven’t you ever wished someone would smile at you like that, purely and simply? And can we ourselves smile at someone like that, from the heart, without expecting anything in return…?

Just being there. The children’s “amulet” really gets to me.

So far, we’ve talked about various aspects of Totoro’s “outward” charm. His fur you just want to touch. His smile that accepts everything.

But I strongly believe the deepest, most fundamental reason we love Totoro lies in his very “way of being.”

That is, he is a character who stays close to children.

Now, I want to explore a very important point with you. It’s the fact that Totoro doesn’t solve a single one of the “real-world problems” Satsuki and Mei are facing!

He doesn’t cure their mother’s illness. He doesn’t offer Satsuki, crying anxiously over her mother’s delayed discharge, a simplistic adult reassurance like, “It’ll be okay, Mom will definitely get better.” He doesn’t use magic to instantly deliver lost little Mei back to the hospital either…

(Ah, wait, the Catbus did help with that in the end! But doesn’t that feel more like Totoro “connected” the path of the Catbus in response to Satsuki’s desperate wish, rather than him “solving” the problem?).

As a fundamental stance, he is not a “problem-solving superhero.” He doesn’t defeat evil or physically save the world like heroes in American comics.

The scene I find most symbolic in this film, and one that warms my heart every time I watch it. It is, without a doubt, that scene at the bus stop in the rain.

Satsuki and Mei wait for their father to return. The bus might not come anymore. What happened to their father? The night is dark, the rain is cold, and to make matters worse, Mei is sleepy and starts fussing… At that lonely bus stop, filled with anxiety and sleepiness, Totoro appears with a “thud.”

He doesn’t speak to Satsuki. He doesn’t ask, “What’s wrong?” He just stands beside her.

He takes the umbrella Satsuki offers, looking puzzled, and listens to the rain pattering “clatter!” and “plop!” as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Then, quietly, he boards the bus (the Catbus!) and departs.

That’s all.

But how reassuring that moment must have been for Satsuki! Both Satsuki and Mei felt uneasy on that dark night road. And there, that big, warm-looking presence just stood silently beside her. Just that “thud” of presence must have saved Satsuki so much, making her think, “Ah, I’m not alone.”

When children (or troubled friends) seem anxious, adults often instinctively try to solve it with words: “It’ll be okay,” “Don’t worry,” “Why not try this?” But what we truly want isn’t words of encouragement or the right advice. Isn’t it rather “someone who shares our anxiety,” “someone who stands silently beside us”?

Totoro is only visible to children. I think this symbolizes the “heart of belief” that adults have lost, while also reflecting that he is a resident of the “children’s world where adult logic doesn’t apply.”

Adults compartmentalize the world with logic and common sense, saying things like “That can’t possibly exist” or “That’s unscientific.” But Totoro exists outside that realm of logic.

Faced with the reality of their mother’s illness, Satsuki and Mei, though young, desperately try to “be strong” and act beyond their years. Satsuki, as Mei’s older sister and the eldest daughter supporting their father, desperately tries to play the “adult role.”

But only in front of Totoro can they return to being “just children.” They can cry when they want to cry, sleep when they’re tired, dance all night just because an acorn sprouted (!), and let their innocent joy explode.

Totoro is the forest spirit who protects the time when children can be children — the ultimate guardian.

Deep down, don’t we adults also long for such a presence?

It doesn’t need to offer solutions to our problems. It doesn’t need to give stern advice like “You should do this.” It just silently accepts the anxiety and sadness we feel right now, sitting quietly beside us. It simply stays close, saying things like, “Yeah, I know, it’s scary,” or “Yeah, I get it.”

Don’t you think Totoro is the very embodiment of the “absolute ally” we wanted in our childhood days (and, deep down, still want even as adults!)?

Totoro is the camphor tree in our hearts!

Source: Free images released by Studio Ghibli

A coat so inviting you just want to touch it, offering absolute reassurance. A smile that affirms everything about us without question, utterly uncalculated. And a presence like a guardian charm — one that, even if it solves nothing, simply stays quietly by our side until the storm passes.

Perhaps the reason we are so irresistibly drawn to Totoro and continue to love him is that he is the ultimate symbol of “unconditional affirmation” and “absolute reassurance.”

In our busy lives, we tend to chase only “usefulness,” “correct answers,” and “efficiency.” In a way, Totoro is “inefficient,” “unproductive” — just a presence that “is” there. But perhaps that’s precisely why he saves us. His very existence seems to whisper, “It’s okay to be there, even if you’re not useful.”

Deep within your heart, there surely exists your very own “camphor tree,” where a “Totoro” visible only to you resides.

On days when work doesn’t go well. On days when someone’s words sting your heart. On nights when tears threaten to fall for no reason.

At times like these, why not pause just a little and go visit the Totoro in your heart? He’s surely still waiting for you, unchanged, with that most wonderful smile, that “Nika!” smile, as if to say, “Welcome back. Well, have a seat here.”

Thank you for reading to the end ( *´艸｀)