Why It Pays to Persist

Yesterday I was in the locker room at the gym when I noticed a woman bent over on one of the benches that face the lockers. Her back was to me, but I could tell that she was crying from the way she shook. I didn't know her, but I recognized her as a regular from her bandana (there's only one woman I've seen there who wears a bandana tied around her head when she works out).
She was talking on her cell phone loud enough that I couldn't help but overhear her (why do people engage in such private conversations on on their cell phones in such public places?). Still, I had to fight the urge not to get involved. The reasons for her tears would be familiar to so many people who have moved to NYC with dreams and idealism but without a lot of money. "I have to move out. I just can't afford this place anymore but everybody's saying to me that I can't just give two week's notice," she said into her phone.
I'm not sure how her confidante responded. She mumbled something. Then the tears started again. "I know I need to find a new job. It's not what I want to do. It's not what I thought I'd be doing," she said (or something to that effect).
More mumbling, and then: "I went to this play with Sophie last night. And it was just so --(sniff) -- good. Y'know. So good. And it made me feel so dumb. It was this historical play--it covered so much. And I didn't understand half of it. And I felt so dumb and I thought, how do they know all this? How am I going to make it if I can't even understand this? I mean I read but I'm not well-read."
(Pause) Then sobs.
I had to bite my tongue. I wanted to tell her that so many people pretend to know more than they actually do. They just fake--or Google--it. That playwrights do research before they create their plays--that very few people have all that knowledge stored up, and ready to download at a moment's notice(and most of those people, while impressive, can be annoying as hell). Besides, what she may lack in analytical or recall abilities, she probably makes up for in creativity (judging by the outfits whe wears, I'd say she has it in abundance). I wanted to tell her: Don't Give Up.
But instead I went upstairs and got onto one of the elliptical machines for 40 minutes, and read about "the elusive genius" and animated filmmaker Hayao Miyazaki (best know for "Spirited Away," Japan's highest grossing movie ever) in the latest issue of the New Yorker. Miyazaki, who creates fantastical worlds inhabited by wide-eyed children with spunk and a sense of humor, exhibits a lot more optimism in his films than he does in person, according to the author, Margaret Talbot. It's ironic, but his films are both a response to, and an example of, what he sees as the dangers of modern Japanese life. He thinks children are too caught up in virtuality--between video games and DVDs and the Internet--and are at risk of losing touch with their actual environment (a process not helped by adults who have paved over parks to build high-rises and relegated their gardens to the rooftops). He has advised that parents not let their children view his films more than once a year. And, in an effort to encourage children to use their senses of touch, smell and taste--senses he thinks are neglected in a world that focuses on visual and aural stimulation--he has built a very hands-on museum that includes physical replications of some of the characters and creatures from his animated films.
As he's quoted as saying at the end of the piece: "I don't want to transfer my pessisim onto children. I keep it at bay. I don't believe that adults should impose their vison of the world on children. Children are very capable of forming their own visions."
Ironic, I thought, because that is exactly what he does with his films--although he might argue that he is only sharing his vision of alternate realities, not imposing them. (And, to his credit, his worlds are more apt to inspire children to trust their imaginations than to rely on their parents' views of the world).
Miyazaki, by the way, did not achieve fame right away--despite his focus and his work habits (he often worked from early morning until after midnight and didn't take vacation--much to the chagrin of his wife and two sons, one of whom recalled, sadly, "It was very rare for me to see him"). He was in his late 30s before he got his first directing credit. And the studio he co-founded didn't have its first hit ("Kiki's Delivery Service") until he was 48. But he didn't give up.