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Something happened yesterday that I didn’t expect.
I was eating a jar of hummus I’d picked up from the store not some handmade farm special, just a regular product off the shelf. But as I slowed down and tuned in, I felt something strange… the frequency of the person who had made it was still in there.
The flavour carried more than taste it carried intention. Not sterile, not robotic. There was love in it. Not in a romanticised way in a grounded, embodied way. I could feel that whoever was behind the recipe actually cared. Even though it was now scaled and sold commercially, the passion was still present. And it nourished me in a way I didn’t expect.
It brought back memories, so I thought I’d share my story.
I used to work in the food industry — delis, Italian provision stores, stocking restaurants. I’m not Italian, but that culture around food always struck something in me. The homemade sauces, the stories, the pride in simple ingredients.
You’d walk into a small family-run restaurant and feel the whole place humming with soul. You’d see the old nonnas in the kitchen, still making gnocchi with their hands, still lighting up when someone tasted their food. That’s what it looks like when someone is doing what they love. The food is just the vehicle what you’re really receiving is their frequency.
One of the things I loved most was cutting full wheels of aged Grana Padano those huge rounds of Parmesan with the crumbly, golden insides. I’d crack them open in front of customers, carving chunks and letting people taste while I explained the flavour, the age, the history.
It was part service, part theatrics and I loved every minute of it. I wasn’t just cutting cheese. I was sharing something I believed in, something I loved… and eating half of it as I went, of course. That energy came through. People felt it. That’s why they came back.
We tend to focus on whether something is organic, clean, vegan, gluten-free. That matters, sure. But beyond the label is something much deeper. The state of the person who made it imprints into the meal.
If someone cooks in stress, that stress carries. If someone stirs in joy, that joy transmits. We aren’t just eating ingredients we’re taking in intention, presence, emotion, memory.
Even something that’s been packaged, sealed, and distributed like that jar of hummus can still hold the signature of the maker, if the origin was pure. And that’s the beauty of conscious creation. It lasts. It lingers.
We live in a world where the system is flooded chemicals in food, toxins in the soil, additives, sprays, and even the sky above us altered. We do our best to choose wisely. But even in all that, the purity of intention can override.
That’s not spiritual bypass. That’s field intelligence. If you speak to your food, bless it, acknowledge it it realigns. If you eat with reverence, your body responds differently. This is cellular. This is spiritual.
This is physics.
And it’s made me think more about what we create in general.
Not just meals, but offerings. Businesses. Relationships. Art.
Because when you move from passion when you do what you love the energy is alive. You don’t have to market it. People feel it. Prosperity becomes a byproduct. Alignment becomes nourishment. And others receive more than just the surface layer of what you’ve made.
That’s what I felt in that hummus.
Someone made it because they cared.
Even if they now sell thousands.
And that energy fed me more than the protein content.
So whatever you’re creating remember, someone will taste it.
Whether it’s a meal, a song, a service, a message.
And what they’ll taste is you.
We’re not just consuming food.
We’re consuming frequency.
And love still feeds deeper than anything else on this planet.
From plate to field,
Aurion
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