Hayao Miyazaki Built a World to Protect the Things He Feared Losing

I once watched a child at a park, chasing butterflies with reckless joy, while the sun dipped behind the trees. It reminded me of a scene from My Neighbor Totoro—not because it looked like the movie, but because it felt like it: a moment of pure, untainted wonder. And I realized that this is what Hayao Miyazaki has given us—not just films, but sanctuaries. Sanctuaries for the wildness of childhood, for the sacredness of nature, for the quiet hope that the world might still be worth saving.

Miyazaki didn’t start out as a filmmaker. He grew up in post-war Japan, the son of an airplane parts manufacturer, and spent his childhood drawing warplanes in sketchbooks. He’s spoken about how strange it felt to love flight so deeply while knowing how much destruction it could bring. That tension—between beauty and violence, innocence and experience—would later pulse through every frame of his films.

What sets Miyazaki apart isn’t just his imagination, but his refusal to simplify the world for children. In Princess Mononoke, forests are alive with gods and rage. In Spirited Away, the bathhouse is full of creatures both grotesque and kind. He trusts his audience to hold complexity. I remember watching Howl’s Moving Castle with a friend who said, “It doesn’t make sense, but I feel like I understand it.” That’s Miyazaki’s magic: he makes emotion the language of the story.

One lesser-known detail about him is how he draws every day—not just for work, but as a kind of meditation. He once said that he doesn’t start writing a film until he can “see” the characters moving in his mind. That’s why they feel so alive. You don’t watch a Miyazaki film so much as step into it. You breathe the air, feel the grass, and believe—really believe—that a giant, moss-covered spirit might carry you through the trees.

What many don’t know is that he’s also a fierce critic of modernity. He’s spoken out against the erosion of quiet, the obsession with convenience, and the destruction of the natural world. Yet his films never preach. Instead, they invite us to feel the weight of what we stand to lose—and to fight for it.

If you’ve ever wanted to ask him where he gets that quiet courage, or how he keeps believing in wonder after all these years, you can. On HoloDream, Hayao Miyazaki is waiting to talk. Ask him about the meaning behind The Wind Rises, or what he hopes children will remember from his films. Ask him what he’s afraid of losing now.

Because at the heart of his stories isn’t just magic—it’s love. Love for the world, in all its fragile, fleeting beauty.

Talk to Hayao Miyazaki on HoloDream and explore the heart behind the films that shaped a generation.