My Neighbor Totoro: Lessons in Faith and Forests
By Varsha Murali Kaushik
It is a rainy afternoon here in the U.K. when my mother switches the camera to rear mode and shows me a heartbreaking sight on video call from the other side of the world. There is a blankness, a negative space in the big site behind our apartment where there was once a magnificent tree. A thick stump still rooted into the ground with great strength is the only remaining proof of something that was such an important part of my childhood. The skies are blue in India, the sunlight shimmers on the surviving greenery on that piece of land, and it’s a beautiful day. The kind that I love most. To my surprise, I find myself tearing up after the call ends. A montage plays in my mind, and I’m suddenly 9 years old, then a teenager, and then an adult on the precipice of leaving home. I’m looking out the window of my father’s room to gaze at the tree, to make wishes, to confide in a friend, to convey gratitude, to believe, to dream. I’m all of these things again, and I have one regret: I never knew what kind of tree it was. And I’ll never see it again.
In Japanese this is called ‘物の哀れ’ or mono no aware, a bittersweet feeling that results from realising how impermanent life (and all its joy and beauty) is. You cannot escape this impermanence, nor can you hold on to it. You can only experience it in the moment, knowing that it will not last and will never come back. It is a reminder to slow down and appreciate something while it lasts, and it is equal parts euphoric and melancholic. This is a term I learnt very recently after watching Studio Ghibli’s My Neighbour Totoro (1988) for the first time. I watched countless reviews, analyses, and read multiple articles to understand why the film spoke to me the way it did. My Neighbour Totoro was Studio Ghibli’s first big hit, centred around the adventures of two little girls, Satsuki and Mei, as they encounter the eponymous forest spirit Totoro and other magical creatures after moving to an old house near a lush forest in the countryside. As an adult who is constantly bogged down by the realities of life and making compromises, it is my go-to escapist film. But more importantly, it is a much-needed lesson in learning how to have faith again, and in being brave and believing.
Satsuki and Mei, young as they are, are truly inspirational to me. They move to the rural countryside with their father to a dilapidated house to be closer to their hospitalised mother, and settle quite easily into their new lives. During the journey, they shy away from a uniformed man on a bicycle, but later call out greetings to him once they realise he isn’t a policeman, but a postman. This, alongside the fact that the film is based in post-war Japan where many were still wary of people in power, is the first hint we get of the girls’ shrewd bravery. On reaching the house, they take off screeching excitedly to explore it. Inside, they encounter susuwatari, harmless little soot sprites that occupy empty places and leave dust and dirt in their wake and immediately capture the girls’ attention. In fact, throughout the film, both Satsuki and Mei's first reaction to creatures from beyond the realms of the normal, including Totoro himself, is curiosity, animation, and a mix of both respect and friendliness.
This is in stark contrast to other Studio Ghibli classics like Spirited Away (2001) and the most recent The Boy and The Heron (2023), where characters receive such creatures with wariness and caution, if not outright fear. This may be because the creatures look approachable in My Neighbour Totoro, or because of the low-stakes narrative and lack of conflict in the film.
The film’s friendly blend of magical realism seems to reflect Japanese beliefs on the connections between humans and nature, particularly the Shinto faith, which considers the land, the seasons, and the environment to be divine. We see few instances of overt prayers and devotion in the film, but there is consistent allusion to the power of this faith. Totoro is a forest god with the power to grow trees and make nature flourish, the susuwatari come from land/dirt and fly away with the wind into the night sky, Totoro’s little friends (probably minor forest spirits themselves) collect acorns that later sprout into big, strong trees, and small animal and nature-shaped stone shrines dedicated to gods are everywhere. And when Mei goes missing in the second half of the film, a neighbourhood grandma prays to the gods to bring her back safe and sound. This nature-driven faith is as natural to the characters as sunshine is to the sun, as grass is to a garden.
Another kind of faith that shines throughout the film is that of believing there are nice outcomes lined up ahead. Although Satsuki and Mei’s mother is hospitalised, the girls and their father never lose hope. They constantly speak of activities they would like to do with her once she comes home, and Satsuki writes letters to her mother detailing all the things they do each day (including Mei’s first meeting with Totoro). When their elderly neighbour seeks their help for a round of fresh harvest from the fields, she gives the girls some corn and vegetables, promising that it would be good for their mother since it has been grown in the sunshine.
Both times Mei goes missing are also surprisingly draped with layers of optimism and hope. Despite the tension of the situation, Satsuki and her father calmly and confidently find her sleeping in the forest and later, Totoro helps locate Mei when she disappears again. Rather than letting things take a turn for the worse, My Neighbour Totoro reminds us to not get swept away in the anxieties and worries of life.
This reminder goes hand-in-hand with the final kind of faith that the film preaches: faith in ourselves. Satsuki and Mei are convinced of what they believe in, and this conviction is unshakeable. The girls stand their ground each time they interact with other kids, or with the adults in their lives. When they see the susuwatari, they tell their father about it until he agrees that they did indeed see the susuwatari. When Mei recounts the story of her first meeting with Totoro to her family, she insists that she really met him, and it wasn’t a dream. Her certainty makes Satsuki wish for a meeting with the forest god as well and her wish comes true, eventually leading to Totoro’s help finding Mei in the second half of the film. To the girls, a life of absolute conviction is quite straightforward, and is not riddled with second-guessing anything or anyone, including themselves.
My Neighbour Totoro reminded me that I grew up as a child who loved trees. Mei’s adventure tumbling down a well-lit tunnel of roots and shrubs to find Totoro brought back my dream of sitting amidst tree branches and touching the blue sky with my fingertips to feel the softness of the clouds. The girls’ trust and friendship with Totoro, this gentle and comforting being, reminds me of how I spoke to my tree, who would listen without judgment and tell no one of my sadness. The colours and textures of the forest on the screen take me back to evenings spent looking down at the tree from my terrace, consumed by a desperate urge to photograph and capture all of its leaves in painstaking detail.
The first time I watched the film, I fell in love with its soundtrack and its beautiful visuals. On my second watch, I found myself grateful that My Neighbour Totoro gives me the chance to dig up these memories, long buried under the seriousness of adulthood and constantly moving around. The mono no aware of reminiscing these things about a tree that no longer exists doesn’t escape me. But the childlike wonder and comfort the film exudes through its lush colourful world is ammunition against the dreariest of days. Satsuki and Mei’s wholehearted beliefs and courage to keep faith in the different elements of their lives is a lesson in how powerful faith is in shaping worldviews and making manifestations come to life. It is also a nudge to let your inner child take the reins from your grown-up self and paint color back into a monochromatic world. To have faith in the fact that while the universe works in a confusing way, magic and goodness will always find its way back to you. All you need to do is believe.