I raise my baton to alert the orchestra that I am ready to conduct. In my best imposture of Gustavo Dudamel, I cue the woodwinds, then coax in the stringed instruments, and finally, I direct the brass-perching on the precipice and at the ready-to chime in. I punctuate my air-piercing baton-swirling, with a jab toward the timpani to elicit an emphatic beat. Smug and sly, I think that Felix Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony never sounded so expressive. As if following my intensity, the surrounding chamber becomes enveloped in a saturated vermillion glow that melts into an intense violet, as I command the orchestra…and we sprint together to the end of the first movement.

I lived in a village in the Swiss Alps for two years when I was a little girl and I remember the delicious crunch of the new fallen snow under my shoes on a cold, still Christmas Eve when I was allowed to attend midnight Mass in the village church. The bells rang sharp and clear in the frosty air, the stars twinkled in the dark sky and I knew I would soon see my Christmas presents. All was well with my wee world.