Be Like Totoro: Finding Peace in the Ordinary

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“Everybody, try laughing. Then whatever scares you will go away.”

— Tatsuo Kusakabe, My Neighbor Totoro

The Magic in the Ordinary

My Neighbor Totoro isn’t really about a giant forest spirit. It’s about finding magic in the ordinary.

Watching it again as an adult, I finally understood that because I realized…I’m living it.

Where most movies give us battles, villains, or some great enemy to overcome, Totoro gives us peace. It opens on a quiet farm, filled with the laughter of children and the sounds of nature: frogs, crickets, birds, wind, and water. Even its most iconic scene is nothing more than characters waiting for a bus in the rain.

Nature itself is a character. It doesn’t demand attention; it just is. It shapes the story, whispers softly, and shines when you finally slow down enough to notice it.

There’s no great conflict here—not in the way we expect. Instead, Totoro teaches something radical: that presence itself is enough. That the smallest sounds and quickest moments can carry more meaning than any grand battle ever could.

And lately, I’ve been stumbling into that same lesson in my own life.

Soot Sprites and Soccer Fields

My latest journal entry didn’t take place on a cozy Japanese farm—it happened on a soccer field.

I’m a high school referee, and my “soot sprites” were the stadium of angry parents yelling at every call. For years, their voices weighed on me. I carried them home, replayed them in my head for days, even weeks.

But lately, I’ve been learning to let go.

And just like Satsuki and Mei, I drove my soot sprites out with laughter. I laughed at how little their noise mattered. I laughed at how free I felt. In that laugh, my soot sprites vanished. My mind finally became quiet again.

Sharing Freedom

But freedom isn’t something to hoard. It’s meant to be shared.

In Totoro, Satsuki guides Mei through the countryside, and Granny offers vegetables and gentle wisdom. Seneca once wrote:

“No good thing is pleasant to possess without friends to share it.”

At halftime one day, a younger referee told me about a coach who screamed at him. “I thought about it all weekend,” he said.

I stopped him right there.“No,” I told him. “Don’t carry it. I carried it for years. I’m done. Let it go.”

I shared what had helped me: books, journaling, simple ways to open the heart. But most importantly, I showed him it was possible.

After that game, a coach approached me about a call. I answered kindly, even joked. And then…the moment dissolved.

I don’t remember if he was mad, smiling, or walking away. The details vanished—like Mei falling into Totoro’s tree, waking with nothing but wonder. What stayed wasn’t the conflict, but the connection with that young ref. That was the seed I planted. My little acorn.

The Joy of Discovery

Totoro also taught me something I never understood until I became a father: the pure joy of discovery.

The afternoon after that game, my daughter and I found a cricket in the grass. She chased it, laughing as it jumped from her hands. I chased alongside her. Our yard filled with laughter, curiosity, and wonder.

Children live with their hearts wide open. Every bug is a friend. Every challenge, a puzzle. They don’t carry yesterday’s weight into today’s play.

Maybe that’s why they have so much energy—because nothing holds them down.

Fleeting Beauty

That same day ended with a golden sunset. I stared at it, knowing I’d never see that exact one again.

Totoro teaches this too. The girls plant acorns that seem ordinary. One night, Totoro makes them sprout into a massive tree. They soar into the sky, flutes echoing softly through the night.

By morning, the tree is gone. But the sprouts remain. The miracle was fleeting, but its proof stayed.

That sunset was my tree. It appeared in full glory, then vanished into memory. But it left a seed behind, a reminder that peace is real. Beauty doesn’t need to last to be true.

The Catbus Moment

And then came my own Catbus moment.

After the exhaustion of the day, I ended it dancing hand in hand with my daughter to the Curious George theme song. Silly. Magical. Unexpected.

The Catbus doesn’t exist for spectacle. It carries the girls to safety, to family, to laughter. That’s what my kitchen dance was: a reminder that the best kind of magic isn’t found in victories, but in love and laughter.

The Philosophy of Ordinary Magic

Everything about this story is ordinary: a soccer game, a cricket, a sunset, a silly dance. But that’s the point.

Japanese philosophy has long taught this. Crickets appear in haiku and songs. The concept of mono no aware reminds us that beauty lies in what fades—just like Totoro himself, appearing and vanishing.

I don’t remember that coach’s words. I remember the young ref’s story. The cricket. The sunset. My daughter’s laughter. Those were the seeds my magical tree left behind.

The Blueprint for Freedom

My Neighbor Totoro isn’t just a children’s movie. It’s a blueprint for freedom.

You don’t need to fight every battle. You don’t need to cling to every word. You can let it all go. And in that space, you’ll hear the crickets, the laughter, the golden skies of your own life.

This isn’t theory. It isn’t philosophy quotes or mindful apps. It’s life. I’m living it—and you can too.

My videos aren’t breakdowns or analyses. They’re journal entries—parallels between my life and the stories that help me see more clearly.

Maybe the ref I was years ago needed this. Maybe my daughter will one day. Maybe you do too.

These are breadcrumbs, a trail showing that if I can do it, so can you.

Be like Totoro. Play in the rain. Stare at the sunset. Chase a bug. Laugh with loved ones.

You’ll find that magic has always been around you.And now, you can finally see it.