“Niggle was a painter. Not a very successful one, partly because he had many other things to do.”
—“Leaf by Niggle,” J.R.R. Tolkien
I have a confession to make: as a scientist, I rarely accomplish what I set out to do, and this inability to measure up to my own expectations disheartens me. This feeling often stems from the perpetual tension between an idealized vision of what my work should produce and the constant interruptions that prevent me from realizing this vision. This tension animates J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Leaf by Niggle,” a short story that not only comforts me, but has also challenged me to rethink the values at the heart of my understanding of my vocation.
In Tolkien’s allegory, Niggle is a painter devoted to creating a single painting of a tree with intricate leaves. Despite his dedication, Niggle is constantly interrupted by his neighbor Parish, who often needs help because of his physical inabilities, leaving Niggle unable to finish his work before dying. In the afterlife, Niggle then discovers his painting has become a magnificent tree—far more beautiful than he could have created alone—with Parish becoming his partner in caring for this now fully-realized tree.
As a research scientist, I identify with Niggle’s obsessive devotion to his unfinished masterpiece. My scientific work—fragmented by teaching obligations, administrative duties, and grant applications—mirrors Niggle’s interrupted painting. But what if these “interruptions” aren’t distractions from our callings but are actually integral to it? What if the undergraduate students at my office door are not interrupting my vocation but constitute the very purpose of my work?
Reframing Interruption as Investment
Picture this normal scenario: I am analyzing data from a promising experiment for an upcoming grant application when I hear a knock on my office door during the worst possible moment. An undergraduate advisee needs help—with lecture material, research applications, or post-graduation anxieties. In these moments, I confess to feeling Niggle’s irritation, pulled away from my tree, my leaves, and my vision. The grant deadline looms, and my role as an instructor seems to impede on my identity as a researcher. Yet when I submit to these “interruptions,” my perspective shifts. These moments aren’t disruptions but expressions of a more holistic academic vocation. My roles as an instructor and advisor aren’t secondary to research—they’re equal aspects of my calling as a scientific mentor.
The tension between Niggle pursuing his incomplete work of art and consistently having to help Parish mirrors the tension in our lives between conducting research and mentoring students. University structures can often catch themselves in the snare of elevating a professor’s status based primarily on research or scholarly accomplishments while still simultaneously emphasizing that teaching excellence and student mentoring are important. This institutional structure innately reinforces the perception that student mentoring is an interruption that takes us away from our true calling of producing cutting-edge research. Yet in Tolkien’s allegory, Parish becomes the essential collaborator who helps complete Niggle’s vision in a way far more magnificently than Niggle could have accomplished alone. Similarly, undergraduates at my office door aren’t pulling me away from my calling but are crucial collaborators in its fullest expression. In fact, these “interrupting” students are often the students who join me as collaborators in my research pursuits.
From Students in the Classroom to Collaborators in the Garden
In “Leaf by Niggle,” the protagonist discovers that his obsession with individual leaves prevented him from seeing the whole tree. Similarly, our focus on individual accomplishment can blind us to the broader ecosystem of academic inquiry. Undergraduate mentoring forces me to articulate the bigger picture—to explain why research matters and how pursing good work together shapes us individually and communally.
Mentoring consumes hours I could spend generating data for publications or writing grant proposals. By conventional academic metrics, these mentoring efforts are an impediment to my “real” scientific work. However, the pressures of doing “real” science—publishing in prestigious academic journals, securing competitive funding, achieving breakthroughs—can foster distorted views of vocation where success is defined by individual achievement rather than contributions to a larger enterprise. But investment in mentoring can reveal this framework’s inadequacy. The perfectionistic pressure I feel to complete my “tree” gives way to a better understanding that my calling involves contributing to good work in others who will far exceed my personal contributions in both time and volume.
This shift in thinking has transformed the way I view academic disruptions. Lab reports needing feedback aren’t hindering important work; helping students develop scientific thinking is the important work. Advising meetings about course selection aren’t stealing time from my research; they ensure that the next generation of scientists builds the necessary foundation they need to succeed. Undergraduates needing remedial help with data analysis aren’t burdens; they’re reminders of why clear communication matters in science for all. However, viewing interruptions as opportunities to invest in does require us to reframe our understanding of vocation itself. If my calling as a scientist is merely producing my own research, then students are indeed interruptions. But if my calling is participating in the broader purpose of scientific discovery and human flourishing, then teaching and mentoring becomes integral rather than peripheral to that purpose.
The Grace of Incompletion
Tolkien’s Niggle discovered that his tree—his life’s work—was never meant to be defined by completion but by contribution. My scientific calling likewise finds its fullest expression not in isolation but in community—not in my personal achievement but in my participation in work that transcends my limited canvas. This recognition liberates me from a distorted view of vocation: undergraduate students filling my office hours aren’t taking me from my calling—they are my calling, reimagined and expanded. The experiment remaining unfinished because I prepared lecture materials isn’t a loss but a gain—a leaf sacrificed for the growth of branches I may never see.
Like Niggle, I am painting something larger than I can see, and the full picture requires a hopeful perspective beyond my temporal scope. In this understanding, the incompleteness of my individual scientific achievements isn’t a failure; rather, it reflects a faithfulness to a hope-filled calling that extends beyond what any single person can accomplish. As Reinhold Niebuhr states, “Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope.”
How might we, then, reimagine our callings not as works to be completed but as contributions to be offered? How can we better reimagine these “interruptions” as invitations to understand our work with others more expansively and recognize that we’ve become the professional we are because someone allowed us to interrupt them? These questions continue to transform how I approach both my science and teaching, learning to see the unfinished nature of my work as a pathway to a calling larger than myself. I encourage others to see the interruptions of others not as distractions from our self-idealized purpose, but as invitations to create something of more beauty with others than we could ever create by ourselves.
Austin Young Shull is associate professor of biology at Presbyterian College, where he teaches molecular biology, cancer biology, and scientific writing, while also serving as the director of the Center for Inquiry, Research, and Scholarship. Austin is a NetVUE Faculty Fellow and was part of NetVUE’s 2019 Teaching Vocational Exploration Seminar. For other posts by Austin, click here.
