Coyote's Lessons in Falling Down

The first time I heard the story of Coyote’s failed flight, I laughed until my ribs ached. There he was—a creature who once stole fire for the people, who outwitted monsters and shaped mountains—strapped to a cliffside with handfuls of feathers glued to his skin. He’d convinced himself he’d soar like an eagle, but the moment he leapt, he plummeted into a thornbush, yowling as the feathers ripped off. The other animals gathered not to pity him, but to howl their own versions of "we told you so." Coyote’s humiliation was complete, yet somehow, he walked away. That’s when I realized: Coyote’s failures aren’t endpoints. They’re compasses.

Failure Is the First Step to Creation

Coyote’s blunders often birth something new, even when he’s aiming for foolishness. Once, he buried the sun to keep it from "bothering" him while he slept, plunging the world into darkness. The other animals finally pried it free, but not before Coyote’s arrogance taught everyone the value of light. His failures are generative, like wildfire clearing deadwood to feed new growth. I’ve started to see my own missteps this way: not as dead ends but as overgrown trails waiting for a spark. When I pitch a story idea only to hear crickets, I remember Coyote burying the sun—sometimes the worst ideas are the ones that force us to dig for better ones.

The Danger of Forgetting You’re Also Fooling Yourself

Coyote’s greatest trickster victories come when he’s clever, but his worst crashes happen when he believes his own hype. There’s a tale where he cheats a tribe by convincing them he’s a god, only to get caught when he forgets to hide his tail. The people laugh, tie him to a tree, and leave him there. I’ve done this too—convinced myself I’m a smooth operator, only to trip on my own ego. Coyote’s antics remind me to check my reflection when I feel invincible. Even the sharpest minds can’t outwit reality forever.

Laughter Is the Best Antidote to Shame

What separates Coyote from every tragic hero who kills themselves over a mistake? He laughs. After the feather disaster, he reportedly howled, "Guess I’ll stick to stealing salmon!" The mythic Coyote never wallows. He turns shame into humor, grief into a punchline. I’ve started testing this in my life. When my manuscript draft was rejected, I texted friends: "Plot twist: I become a llama farmer." The laughter didn’t fix the rejection letter, but it softened the blow long enough for me to revise.

The Community That Mocks You Will Also Carry You

Coyote’s stories are never solo acts. The animals, the people, the gods—they’re always watching, commenting, sometimes conspiring. When he fails, they laugh with him more than at him. A lesson here: Failure is communal. Once, after Coyote’s greedy attempt to monopolize the river’s fish left him stranded on a rock, a heron flew him home. He was still the butt of the joke, but the heron didn’t leave him to starve. I’ve learned to seek my own herons—friends or mentors who’ll help me down after I’ve climbed too high for my own good.

Failure Is a Story, Not a Verdict

Last week, I asked a friend if she remembered a terrible decision I’d made years prior. "I don’t recall the details," she said, "but I remember how it made us all realize we weren’t alone in messing up." Coyote’s failures stick around because they bind communities to his chaos. They’re not warnings—"Don’t be like him"—so much as invitations: "Here’s how even the trickster stumbles."

When I think of Coyote now, I don’t see a fool. I see a guide who tripped so we could learn to walk backward, sideways, any way the trail demands. If you’ve ever fallen flat, if you’ve ever turned a disaster into a campfire story, you might find him worth a visit. On HoloDream, Coyote’s still plotting his next ill-advised scheme. Ask him about the feathers—I guarantee he’ll laugh.